


Ephemeral

by OsirisGalaxy



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Missing Scene, Racial slurs, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OsirisGalaxy/pseuds/OsirisGalaxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Battle City is over, the Ishtars have returned to Egypt, and it seems Malik has a chance at a normal life until he receives an unexpected visitor. Thiefshipping. Rated M for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reunion

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“So are you.”

Night anywhere else meant silence, peace, but in Cairo it simply meant the neon lights shone more brightly without sunlight drowning them out. Dozens of stories below the streets still bustled with people, sunburnt tourists and seasoned locals alike. Shimmering cars waited in crowded streets alongside rusted delivery scooters, with pedestrians filing through wherever they could in a mass of bodies against machinery. Voices mingled, drowned under cars beeping and blaring music. In short, Cairo was alive, but Malik’s companion was supposed to be the exception.

“How did you find me?” That was the obvious question at hand. Battle City had been two months ago, the champion had collected his crown and the dust was more or less settled, at least Malik had done his best for that to be true. He’d been lying if longing for his old lifestyle with the Ghouls, with the money and the cars and the amenities, hadn’t cropped up at all in his efforts to rehabilitate, but a simple glance at his brother and sister could usually remind him of what was truly important, and it didn’t lie in material things anymore.

“You aren’t hard to find.” Bakura replied. “Isis works for the government after all, all I had to do was contact her assistant and get her mailing address. The rest was child’s play.” He looked idle, sitting in Rishid’s chair with his dusty shoes on the coffee table and his pale hands folded behind his head.

Malik scowled. He would have to tell Isis about that lack of discretion. “I’m not striking any more deals with you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Who said I was here to strike deals?”

“That’s all you’ve ever done.”

Bakura looked over at him with mild irritation. “As I remember it, you were the one who cornered me on a pier and made me choose between death and working with you.”

Malik bit the inside of his cheek. Bakura wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t change his resolution. “The first thing you ever said to me was a death threat, don’t act like you’re such a victim, spirit.”

“Second thing.”

“What?”  
“It was the second thing I ever said to you. The first thing I ever said to you was much more polite.” Bakura twisted to face him, his grin clear even in the dim light of the apartment. “I called you a good boy, actually.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Malik snapped.

“You’re such a teenager…” Bakura’s smile didn’t waver, and Malik’s impatience flared again.

“Shut up. What do you want?” Bakura stood up, and Malik felt a mild surprise at how much taller he was than the ghost, something he had never bothered to notice in Battle City.

“I’m bored.”

“…Bored.”

“Yeah. Bored.” Bakura’s fingers drummed against the back of Rishid’s chair, that boredom manifesting itself in restlessness “I’m supposed to be collecting items-”

“I know.”  
“Be quiet. Motou has a few already, the rest are in the hands of that other branch of tombkeepers, and soon they’ll be reunited in Domino.”

“What does that have to do with me? I’ve played my part in the Pharoah’s journey to the afterlife.” Malik said this with bitterness out of habit, but his ill will towards the Pharaoh was no more than a shadow of a former hatred. He saw that Bakura still wore the ring around his neck, but he could only see the worn cord from where the item rested under his shirt.

“It has nothing to do with you.” Bakura watched Malik’s surprised expression quickly bottle itself up under indifference and saw the chink in the boys armor. “I just have some time to kill. I thought you entertaining enough to pay a visit.”

Malik stared at him for a moment, searching for a lie. When he saw none he answered Bakura with a scoff. “You expect me to entertain you? After everything you’ve done? Even coming here in Ryou’s body is a damn disgrace. I should call the cops.”

Bakura had the audacity to laugh at him. “So your precious Ryou can get locked up in some foreign jail? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and plenty of stupid things have come out of that mouth of yours.” Malik opened his mouth to say something even more vicious, but his jaw snapped shut when Bakura actually had a point. The last thing that boy needed to go through was prison, especially in a place where he couldn’t even speak the language.

“My precious? You’re the one who threw a whole duel away for him.” He retaliated weakly.

Bakura’s amusement vanished, replaced with a deep frown. “Because I wouldn’t be able to survive without him. The ring isn’t like you and your sister’s pathetic items, it can’t be wielded by just whoever picks it up.”

“Well that decision didn’t do you much good when Ra burned you to ashes, did it?”

“And whose fault was that? Whose dark half purged him from his own body like some parasite and came crawling to me for help?” At the mention of his Yami, Malik tensed up as if the monster was breathing down his neck that second. Bakura noticed this and saw the boundary that had been overstepped. With a sigh he waved the question away. “It doesn’t matter. I’m asking for a night. I may have months until Yugi manages to reunite the items, am I supposed to sit pretty in the ring until the time comes?”

“I don’t know, figure it out for yourself. Now get out of my house.” Bakura’s eyes narrowed, but he took a few steps forward until he and Malik were truly face to face. Malik seemed barely able to hold his urge to hit him, but now that he had relinquished the rod he was no real threat to him anymore. Numerous parting quips ran through his head, many of them scathing insults to Malik’s resolve and obviously faked good kid act, but a far better idea presented itself when it glinted at him from over Malik’s shoulder.  
He shrugged, his mood changing once more from irritated to mirthful.  
“Fine.”

Malik didn’t trust that look, and especially didn’t trust how it’s intensity made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Bakura brushed past him, clearly in no hurry as he went out the door. Malik didn’t turn to watch him go, showing that kind of concern would be giving Bakura exactly what he wanted, and it’s not like the spirit would hurt him if he had found him so interesting in the first place. He only hoped Bakura would eventually get bored enough to return himself and his host back to Japan, where he was surely missed. It wouldn’t be all that surprising if he had just picked up and left without warning, and those friends of Ryou’s would probably be sick with worry that he up and disappeared without a trace. After that, if they found out he had been in Egypt, it wouldn’t be long until Jounouchi or Honda placed the blame on Malik himself when all he wanted was to finish the Pharaoh's journey to the afterlife and be done with them all. Just thinking about them brought up memories he had spent the past two months burying, memories of fire and darkness and freefalling through every plane of existence there was. No. He demanded control, and Bakura was the opposite.  
He sighed as he turned around. Bakura was gone, he was alone, it was like the other man was never there. Now if there was one thing he needed at a time like this, it was a drive. His motorcycle waited in the parking garage alongside where Isis and Rishid’s cars would normally be parked had they not been late at work or night classes, respectively. He ran a dark hand through his hair as he walked to the door, eyes downward, and he reached out for the hook his keys were hanging on.  
His head shot up when only the wooden hook greeted his fingers, and the next few seconds were an anxious checking of pockets and other hooks before the very sudden, very annoying, and very obvious answer presented itself.  
“I’m going to fucking kill him.”


	2. The Hostage

Twenty flights of stairs would take far too long to descend, so the elevator was the clear option. It’s low, even toned music jingled along as it moved, offsetting the bubbling fury just below Malik’s calm exterior. It was almost comical, this blond, gold covered, eyeliner- heavy teenager, glaring ahead with arms crossed over his chest like his purple rain party just got cancelled. The occasion, however, was significantly more serious than 80s pop classic themed celebrations. Currently, a certain Thief was likely in the possession of Malik’s oldest and most treasured possession, and there was no way in hell he was going to let Bakura so much as smudge it and remain unscathed.

The parking garage beneath the apartment building was your standard concrete labyrinth with its low roof and stark orange light, but Malik had been down there enough at this point to know his way around with ease. A few sharp turns and long rows of SUVs later and he could see the spaces where he and his siblings parked their vehicles, with his motorcycle being the only one currently there. Leaning against said motorcycle was Bakura, his long white hair washed a peach color in the strong lighting. His slim fingers held Malik’s keys, and were currently spinning them as fast as he could without having them fly from his nimble grasp. “About time you got here.”

“About time you gave those back.” Malik retorted, and he opened his hand and waited expectantly.

“Did you honestly think it would be that easy?” Bakura held the keys fast. “What do you take me for?”

“A pain in the neck.”

“Very funny.”

“Too bad I’m not joking.”

“Lighten up, Ishtar.” Bakura gave the keys another twirl, locking eyes with Malik when he brought one of the points onto the cherry red paintjob. Malik froze when metal met metal, and Bakura pressed on the key. “Are you coming with me?”

Malik stared at his hand. His exterior seemed just jarred, but inside he was raging. A scratch seemed so measly, he knew it was, and if Bakura had picked any other object he would have let him turn the surface into a massive cobweb of marks without so much as a second thought. But this was his bike, the one he spent countless hours traversing desert and city alike in, the one he had so painstakingly repaired and tweaked to stay far above average and exceedingly beautiful after years and years of travel. He could almost hear the screech of the key being gouged into the body, see the deep white scar, feel the sand edge it’s way under the break and strip away the rest of the paint until it was nothing but rust, rotting away in some scrapyard with other decrepit and broken hunks of metal. He could always get it buffed out, but what said that Bakura would just stop at the paint? It wasn’t like Malik could fight him either. If it was as simple as punching and kicking Malik had the clear advantage, being taller and with more of a muscular build, but Bakura was not only extremely fast but had a three-thousand year old artifact with ambiguous but very deadly abilities on his side, and without the millennium rod Malik didn’t stand a chance against that thing. 

If he could keep his bike safe, he could stand Bakura for one night.

Malik took confident strides, closing the gap between himself and Bakura until he could place his hand on the polished handlebar of the bike. “I’m driving.” He growled, and was met with a satisfied smirk from the ghost.

“I knew you would make the right choice.” Bakura said as he moved out of Malik’s way, dangling the keys in the Egyptians face until he snatched them away. He wordlessly climbed on top of the motorcycle, turning the key inside the ignition so that the engine gave a luxurious roar as it came to life. He plucked his helmet from where it was locked onto the passengers end and tossed it to Bakura.

Bakura caught it with ease but looked at it like he had hurled an insult instead of protective gear. “I’m not wearing this.”

“Yeah you are. I’m not going to let Ryou get hurt because you don’t know how to ride one of these.”

“I can work a computer just fine, this thing can’t be any more complicated than that. It’s basically a mechanical horse, and no one rode a horse better than I did." 

Malik snatched it back and fixed it to his own head. “Fine. You’ll be begging for it in a few minutes. Get on already.” At the mention of the horse riding abilities he couldn’t help but wonder about Bakura’s past life for a fleeting moment. In their three day partnership they hadn’t bothered to ask much about each other, and truthfully Malik hadn’t cared all that much. Until he had to bargain the scars on his back in exchange for Bakura’s help in defeating his darker half, nothing personal aside from their desire to defeat the Pharaoh and collect either the items or the god cards came up between them. But even that secret had never been told, not when their loss resulted in endless fire. 

Malik’s thoughts snapped back to reality when Bakura climbed behind him with surprising care, and after a pause he felt his hands on his waist. The grip wasn’t very tight, but he seemed certain enough that Malik didn’t question it. Still feeling a bit spiteful, he waited until Bakura was barely adjusted before gunning the engine, driving through the empty space in front of them and taking a few sharp twists until they were out onto the street. Twenty stories above the sidewalk you could hear maybe a dull roar, but in the thick of the masses, surrounded by people and cars and near-viscous exhaust, the noise was nonstop. Bakura had been caught unawares when Malik started driving, and a sharp gasp caught in his throat when the bike lurched forward and he was nearly thrown from the seat. Now he was holding Malik’s waist much tighter, but the needles of his fingers digging into his flesh was worth that moment of panic in Malik’s view.

"You okay back there?” He asked over the clamor of traffic when they came to a stop. Bakura growled at the grin in his voice and whacked the back of his helmet with the heel of his hand, which earned him an elbow to the ribs. “I knew you didn’t know how to ride a bike.” Malik said with an air of superiority.

“I’m still on, aren’t I? Besides, aren’t you supposed to keep me safe? Since you’re so concerned about my host.” 

"Hey, do I look like I want to fight about that again?”

“Whatever. The second I get bored I’m sending this thing to the scrapyard so you better find something to entertain me fast.”

“If you even breathe on my bike wrong you’re dead, got it? I know where to go.”

“If this light ever ch-” Bakura didn’t get to finish that sentence before Malik was propelling them through the intersection along with scores of other vehicles in the near free for all that were the Cairo roads. They narrowly dodged a few teenagers kicking a ball back and forth, and not five seconds later did Malik swerve between a gridlock of cars in their way. Bakura made himself as small as possible without completely balling up to avoid the sensation of car mirrors and broken windshield wipers occasionally grazing him. “Fuck you, Ishtar.” He hissed into Malik’s ear when they finally came to another red light, and Malik just straightened up and pretended he didn’t hear him just to be irritating.

“Tell me where you’re taking me.” Bakura demanded, and this time Malik felt a new warmth radiating against his back, the kind of heavy, metallic heat the darker items gave off when activated, and Malik rolled his eyes at Bakura’s behavior.

“If you’re really that impatient, we’re going t-” He was cut off by an engine revving, and his head snapped to the lane beside him, where a navy blue Mercedes with a shimmering white racing stripe running down its body had pulled up beside him. It was freshly waxed, so evenly done that the pair could see their reflections in the paint. Malik saw that Bakura had at some point pulled his hair back to keep it from flying everywhere, and that he could actually see the side of his face for once. He had a sharp jaw and even sharper cheekbones, no doubt from the exhaustion he was putting Ryou’s body through, but the shadows they cast on his face and throat were interesting in their starkness against his pale skin. He only had a second to ponder this before the window of the Mercedes rolled down, and a man and a woman looked out at them. The man was clearly American and the woman full blooded Italian by the looks of it, and Malik guessed that he was a visiting boyfriend she had met from some exchange program and they decided to go to the “exotic land of Egypt” due to some Elizabeth Taylor inspired fantasy. The woman was at the wheel, her maxi skirt hiked up to her knees so she could hit the pedals without dirtying the hem, and the man wore a tank top with armholes that nearly hung to his hip. 

“‘Sup A-rab!” The man shouted at Malik, and his gum smacked and stretched between his jaws. “What kind of bike you got?”

Malik grit his teeth before a fake smile formed on his face, and he gave the bike a proud smack on the handlebar. “Oh this? It’s a 2015 “Go Fuck Yourself”. Fresh off the line.”

“Fuck you man. I’m just trying to ask a question.”

The woman spoke to her passenger, but loud enough for all to hear. “Chad leave him alone, he’s just a kid and he probably stole that thing anyway.” In front of them, a few vehicles were signaled to move by the traffic guard, and were swallowed up by the rush. “C’mon look at what he’s wearing, all that gold and shit.” She didn’t seem to notice her gold earrings or large falcon necklace she obviously got from a gift shop window.

“What are they saying?” Bakura asked Malik, and he remembered that the spirit couldn’t speak English, only Japanese and maybe Coptic.

“They’re saying I stole my motorcycle.” Malik explained bitterly. “And either they can’t speak their own language or they’re calling me names.” The couple was laughing beside them.

“That’s either a dude or a really ugly chick.” The man said while pointing at Bakura, and the woman laughed. “Which is it, raghead? You some kinda faggot?”

If Malik had the rod he would’ve taken hold of them, made them bash their own heads into the dashboard of their Mercedes until their skulls cracked apart and their brains spilled into their laps. He had done so to others for less. But not only was that against his entire goal of reversing the damage he had done, but the Pharaoh had his item now and he was simply himself, no magic, no curses, just another teenager for all they knew. The ring that clattered against his back was warm again, but he and Bakura both knew that using its dark powers in such an open space would at worst start a panic with the pedestrians that would see the effects, and at best draw attention to Bakura, who couldn’t risk getting into too much trouble with the authorities with his visitors status in the country at the moment. Malik didn’t grace the man’s question with an answer and looked straight ahead. What did it matter if he was gay anyway? In truth he hadn’t ever given it much thought. It was always assumed that he would marry another tombkeeper and have children that would continue their bloodline so that the Pharaoh always had loyal servants for when he returned. Being anything but heterosexual wasn’t explicitly forbidden, but it was never an option either. The whole thing had never crossed his mind for more than a moment because he simply hadn’t had the time or the need to ponder it, but now with the man shouting derogatory terms to try and rile him up it finally took hold in his mind.

“Malik.” Bakura’s voice broke him from his train of thought with a start. He was about to ask him what until the woman revved her engine.

“Let’s see what that toy can do!” She shouted, grinning widely while she pumped the gas pedal. “C’mon. Burn a little rubber!”

“A race…” He shouldn’t. He was already in enough hot water with carting Bakura around like some sort of tour guide, and the spirit was already angered with him. Racing her was not only risky in that aspect, but also for the obvious legal reasons. Wasn’t he trying to better himself? Hadn’t he rid himself of the darkness that beckoned him to rebel, to destroy, to conquer everything in his path, no matter how insignificant? The heat from the Mercedes shimmered against his side, warming his skin almost as much as the millennium item against his back and it’s owners hands upon his waist. He turned back to Bakura, the man who had plummeted him into this mess, and all he received was a nod and the feeling of his companion moving closer to him, preparing for the sudden burst of speed. His arms wrapped completely around Malik’s torso and he could feel his freezing breath upon his neck. It made him shiver, but not in the way the idea of a race was. He used to rend roads apart with the speeds he forced the machine to reach, dust clouds would billow behind him like a cloak. The wind, fresh and clear, beating against his heart, whipping through his hair, it had been so long since he had a taste of that lack of inhibition, and here was his opportunity to feel it again in the most unlikely of places: with his old partner at his back in the city he was supposed to be reforming himself in. He shouldn’t, he couldn’t-

Malik revved his engine in response, and a dangerous smile appeared on the tourist’s faces. They began whooping, and when they were signaled to drive, both vehicles went screeching past the guard, dust and sand that the tires kicked up echoing their path. They only had maybe a little more than half a stretch of road to test each other on, but if Malik outdid them he could slip between the cars in front and not only win, but escape any further name-calling. The man beat the door of their car with his palm as if it would urge it on like some kind of animal, but Malik’s companion was far quieter, silent even, which was unusual for him, but there was no time to think about that. The Mercedes was inching its way to the lead and the couples laughter rang from the open window, making Malik’s blood boil. The man shouted something at him, but he didn’t bother to listen to his screeching east coast English anymore and punched the gas lever. The wind bit at his bare arms, the glow of the streetlamps looked like warm streaks of light, and cries of surprise from barely dodged pedestrians didn’t break his concentration.

Every movement was calculated and precise, from the flexing of his wrists to the press of his heels against the footrests, and Bakura could feel that tension in the bend of his spine that he was all but flush against. The wind hurt his eyes, but he forced them open anyways to keep aware of his surroundings. He let his eyes stray to the Mercedes, peering easily inside through the tint. Their car was full of souvenirs, baubles artfully scratched to look like ancient treasures. It was laughable, and he would’ve told Malik if his partner had any interest in listening at all. Malik’s ability to focus on the minutia of tasks fascinated him sometimes. His strategies were short term, swift, and had few weaknesses, but those weaknesses were capable of unraveling the whole plan. Bakura was the opposite: drawn out, risky, but flexible and resilient. These differences resulted in jagged edges within the mesh of their strange partnership, but somehow it seemed to work enough to keep them intrigued with one another, even if their first agreement ended in failure there was no doubt that their methods complimented each other, regardless of the bickering involved.  
Bakura’s thoughts were interrupted by a divot in the road that made the motorcycle jump and rattle. Malik swore under his breath and clenched his hands even tighter around the handlebars like that would give him some sort of reassurance. Bakura looked back into the Mercedes where the couple’s had started yelling at Malik again, and while Bakura couldn’t speak English he knew what their tone indicated. If only he could use the ring.

Bakura straightened up so he could speak into Malik’s ear, or the best he could through the helmet. Malik flinched as if he had forgotten Bakura was there, but it wasn’t the time to poke fun at how jumpy he seemed to be. “Is this all you can do?” He asked in a tone with a mocking edge to it. “I expected more, after how they’ve insulted you.”

“Not. Now.” Malik said with a punch in each syllable, but the concentration he lost when they hit the pothole seemed to be creeping back.

“You should’ve made them fucking pay by now. We’re running out of road.”

“I can see that!”

“Then beat them already!”

Malik gunned the engine once again, a high whirr running through the motorcycle as the burst of energy travelled through it. They began to creep into the lead, and the look of the couple beside them went from triumphant to wide-eyed anxiety. The man yelled at the woman to speed it up, but her cries of frustration indicated that they had reached their limit. Malik pressed the gas lever hard against the handlebar and the engine gave one last roar as they pulled in front of the Mercedes, the dust making the couple stop with a slam of the brakes. As the bike slipped between the cracks in the wall of cars they heard a slam of metal against metal, and when they dared a glance over their shoulders they saw the couple leaning out of their windows to scream at the unwitting driver who had just rear-ended them and crushed their bumper so it hung by only a smashed end piece. Malik snapped his head back forward with satisfaction, and they sped from the scene until the shouts faded into background noise.


	3. The Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the really late update! I've been super busy! Also sorry this is a little short, I'll make the next one extra long to make up for it.

“Holy Ra.”

“Yeah.”

The side street they had pulled into was empty, save for a locked bicycle and a few empty boxes set out by the back door of some establishment. The motorcycle was leaning on its kickstand and still warm to the touch from the race it had just been forced into, and it’s riders were giving it some time to cool down, per Malik’s insistence.

“You didn’t used to drive so carefully.” Bakura said after a few moments of silence passed.

Malik, in far too good a mood to create conflict, just gave him an amused look. “How would you know? The last time you were on it you were a bit too busy bleeding out to criticize my driving. Do you always conveniently carry Bowie knives?”

“I don’t know. Do I look like a knife expert? For example,” Bakura reached into his coat pocket, and with a flourish he produced a knife with a split handle, which he flicked open and spun in his hand a few times. It caught the faint light in its brief motion. “I don’t know what this is called, but it’s damn useful.”

“It’s a butterfly knife. And why do you carry that around? You have the ring.” Malik could've asked where he got it, but he almost didn't want to know.

“This doesn’t require me to summon the forces of darkness to use it.” As if it knew it was the topic of discussion the Ring thrummed ever so faintly, and had they not been long trained to recognize the sound they may not have noticed it.

“Your knife obsession is unsettling.”

“ _My_ knife obsession? I didn't even the know the name of it. You did, though. Why's that? Ever use one of these?" Bakura's eyes lit up at the question, and even more at Malik's unsure expression, and he flicked the knife back open so the edge was barely touching his pale jaw. "You have."

With a shake of his head Malik dismissed it. "It was a long time ago. It's not important." A ghoul in his control, a dealer that didn't want to cooperate, two holes in a screaming head where eyes had been. Yes, he was familiar with butterfly knives.

Bakura snickered and flashed the knife at him again. "I'm not buying it."

"I don't have to explain anything to you, okay?" Malik said quickly. "Let's just get out of this alley. It smells like garbage."

"That's just your lies."

"Shut up. I know where we can go. Now we can't drink or anything, but there's this club-"

"You go clubbing? I think you spent too much time in France, Eurotrash."

"Hey, I'm young, I dress well, and I'm a pretty good dancer. I'm going to go clubbing every now and then." Then after a beat he added: "Sorry we don't kick around blown up animal bladders for fun anymore."

"I know you think that was clever, but it wasn't."

"Just get on the bike."

 

-

 

The music could be heard from at least a block away, so it was borderline deafening when they were actually in the building. The bouncer drew X's on their hands and they wove through an ever-increasing crowd of people. The only light seemed to be the stark neon illuminating the bar and a few randomly scattered flashing red and blue lasers on the dancefloor. They were jostled frequently by patrons or the occasional dancer rushing from their dressing room to whatever platform they were supposed to be performing on. 

"This is what you consider fun?" Bakura asked as yet another drunken man pushed past him without so much as a "my bad".

"It's the best I could come up with at one in the morning." Marik directed him to the bar so they could wait for the crowd to thin. "Also, I have no idea what you like to do, so I went with the most generic thing. Honestly, you’re lucky we got in. Some places don’t let people under 21 come in after a certain time.”

“So lucky.” Bakura grumbled.

“Instead of pouting, you could tell me something you’d like to do.” It was agitating, like when Isis and Rishid wanted to go to dinner and asked Marik where he wanted to go, but then shot down every suggestion he gave.

Bakura looked outright puzzled as he stared at the rows of bottles on the shelf in front of them. Seconds ticked by without an answer and Malik sighed. "Well?"

"I don't know." Bakura finally admitted, but he didn't even really seem to be speaking to Malik. He wasn't even looking at him, and his expression was hard to read. 

There was a greater implication to this and Malik knew it, but how to handle this sudden shift in mood was another thing entirely. A light skimmed over Bakura's cheek and flashed into Malik's eyes, and for a moment he only saw blue before he had to look away. When he turned back Bakura was looking at him, but the expression was unsettling, inhuman, and Malik remembered once again that he was no mortal, no mere fickle man, but something ancient and immense. A feeling like envy flared in Malik's chest. His thirst for immortality clawed at him some nights, and Bakura spent his eternal life bored and wandering. The very notion made his teeth grind.

"I've upset you." Bakura said after a pause.

"What do you care?" Malik turned away from him and stared at the small bowl of cashews between them.

"I can't have you pouting like a child all night, can I?"

"Fuck off." 

"Bite me." Even the insult was too modern and stark for a being so shadowy and old, and Malik's hands hit the bar.

"Doesn't it bother you?" He snapped. "You're thousands of years old, you've seen things most people can't imagine, you're eternal, and you just fucking drift around cracking jokes!"

Bakura's eyes flared, made sinister by the red lights and something much deeper beneath the surface. But it didn't last; a gash of a smile spread across his face, and his shoulders shook with silent laughter until a few low peals echoed in Malik's hollow chest.

"You're so emotional Ishtar, you know that? I'm not here to unload my life story, I'm not a messenger sent from the field of reeds to tell you some secret knowledge or give you the key to immortality. I just am. I'm not going to tell you a thing, and whether or not you accept that isn't my issue. Believe it or not, there are some things you can't have." The blade of his jaw, his sunken eyes, in the dimness, when the special effects were making multicolored tangles elsewhere, Bakura's stolen face looked like a cackling death mask. The man was a hieroglyph brought to life, a relief on the side of the tomb wall that Malik had memorized in his youth, only instead of quiet dignity there was taunting and denial of the barest taste of eternity.

Malik stood up without a word, grabbing the drink he ordered which was unpleasantly nonalcoholic. Had he a shred of his former glory he could wage war against Bakura that instant, but he had handed over the only thing that made him powerful, extraordinary, a God worthy of awe. Now he was just Malik, and that fact was becoming more unbearable by the minute. Instead of magic and ancient power, he smirked as he did the "modern" thing, which was to throw his drink into Bakura's unsuspecting face.

Bakura choked on the juice and sugar, his face and hair drenched by ice. His mouth hung open, he stared up at Malik's arrogant face, and before he thought better of it he pounced from his stool, knocking the taller man over in a single fluid strike. Malik shouted, fists aiming expertly at various spots at his sides that made his host's body scream.  
"I hate you." He hissed in Bakura's ear, but the spirit just growled and sank his teeth into Malik's clenched jaw. Bakura's opponent cried out in pain and jabbed his knee up, hitting him between the legs. Bakura saw white for a second, the pain so acute he thought he would freeze, but he swallowed the worst of it and brought himself to focus with the repeated reminder that it wasn't his body, it wasn't his body, it wasn't his body. 

"Son of a bitch!" Bakura tangled his hand in Malik's light hair and brought them both up on shaky legs. Other patrons were starting to grow wary, what looked a minor scuffle was clearly turning into a fight. Bakura didn't even notice them as he slammed Malik's head into the thick plastic paneling of the bar, making a chorus of shouts and sympathy gasps go around the room. Malik gave an agonized groan then, his head spinning, but he still found it in him to grab Bakura's shirt and bring him down onto his kneecap, knocking the wind from him. Bakura gasped, and without any gloating Malik slammed his elbow into his back, knocking him to the ground. Bakura didn't even have a chance to get up before Malik's foot made contact with his stomach in a merciless kick, and Bakura was sprawled out on the ground with spots dancing across his vision.

When it began to clear he saw Malik wiping blood from his nose, but he was stumbling, holding onto the bar for support. The lights resumed with vigor and patrons went back to their business of dancing and laughter. Malik was lit up in red and blue, his gold jewelry glittering with each flash of light. Bakura stood up, wavering only a second before regaining his footing and shaking his head to clear it.

"Malik." He tested, though his gut told him to leave that pathetic human as he was, eyes squeezed shut and brown furrowed as he swayed on his feet.

"Fuckoff." Malik slurred, and that's when Bakura knew something was definitely wrong. Malik didn't half-form his words, each one was delivered scalding and sharp. Before Malik could protest Bakura gripped his chin and jerked his head to face him. Blood dripped from his broken nose down his mouth and onto his shirt, staining the purple a rust color, and some even ran into the divots between Bakura's fingers. Malik's eyes opened, but despite the lights dancing behind Bakura's head, his pupils were all too dilated.

"Goddammit."

 

-

 

Getting to Malik's home had certainly been a struggle of its own. Bakura had slung his concussed partner's arm over his own shoulders to support him, and Malik's pathetic attempts to refuse help and try and walk on his own usually ended with him catching his foot on a bike rack and almost falling. After the fourth time he finally ceded to let Bakura guide him, but with no short amount of "I hate you"s or "don't touch my bike"s. He could reluctantly oblige, but only by hooking the bike up to a rack on the front of a city bus, which likely would've made a more conscious Malik fly into a rage. Despite its size it was able to be docked on the bus rack, and then it was a long and awkward ride while the group of old women across from them stared and whispered. Malik had done a good job of staying upright once they were sitting down, but every now and then his head rolled towards Bakura’s shoulder, though as soon as it made contact he would jerk it back up again with a glare as if Bakura had somehow initiated it. He wasn’t sorry, that’s what he kept telling himself. Malik had started the whole thing, he should’ve expected Bakura to come back at him twice as hard, and really Malik had won the fight itself, even if he was paying for it now. But he looked more human than ever like this, pale-faced, his head tilted back and reading the ads on the walls over and over: a new soap opera, skin lightening cream, psa to watch out for pickpockets, his hands resting listlessly in his lap like he had forgotten about them. Malik gave the impression of being larger than life, but that’s all it was, an impression. No matter what his mannerisms were Malik was all too mortal with these fluorescent lights upon him, but what Bakura couldn’t figure out is why that even mattered to him. In his idle nights when his host let him have their vessel, he had wandered across all sorts of people, and they were just that: people. Nothing stuck out about them, even the eccentric ones. None of them could be more shocking or intriguing than anyone he had met in his human days or even his half life in the ring. Before, people had stumbled about mumbling prophesies, horrors spilling from their lips like swirling Nile water. Now they shuffled from building to building, grey and thoughtless. Maybe Malik mattered because he wasn’t like that. He burned and burned and burned like the ancients used to, but never succeeded in reducing anything but himself to ash. Bakura glanced at him again, he was cracking his knuckles on one hand, it seemed to ground him. Bakura watched the bones beneath the skin pop into place.

Somehow he managed to get Malik’s bike back into its spot, but now there were two cars bordering it. Isis and Rishid, how could he forget? With a roll of his eyes he adopted the best doe-eyed expression he could and took them up the elevator and through the halls, and with gentle fingers he knocked on the door. Before he could even tap the wood twice it swung open and Isis was standing there, dark eye circles standing out like the kohl her brothers wore. 

“Bakura Ryou?” She asked. Her japanese pronunciation was a little rusty, but flowed as professionally as ever. She stepped away, and Bakura noticed the chair by the door. They had been waiting for him. “What happened? He looks ill.”

“He had a bad fall.” Bakura explained, and she took her brother from his shoulder. Now he had to actually perform Ryou’s mannerisms, feet not too far apart, hands folded together patiently, how could he carry himself like this.

“He has a concussion.” Rishid knew instantly, Bakura even had to admit that was impressive. He wasted no time to be at his brother’s side, and he eased Malik onto the sofa. “Bakura, has he vomited?”

“No, he’s just been unsteady.”

“That’s good, we don’t have to go to the hospital then. We can’t let him sleep though.”

Isis sighed in relief as she tucked a lock of Malik’s hair behind his ear. He groaned, maybe embarrassed but too dizzy to stop her attentions. Only then did she looked back up. “Bakura, what are you doing in Egypt?” 

Why would his host be in Egypt? “My father is working here, I came to visit and I asked Malik if he was around.”

“That’s strange, he didn’t mention you.”

“You know he’s not very talkative lately.” Rishid muttered to her, but of course Bakura could hear. 

He and Isis shared a look, but it was cut off by her covering her mouth to yawn. “Oh, sorry…”

“I can stay up with him.”

“No, you have a class tomorrow morning.”

“Well you have work.”

Bakura made a slight face, one they wouldn’t notice. He was the one who concussed him, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make up for it a little. Especially if he had to rely on their hospitality for the night. “I can stay up with him, if you like.”

“You would do that?” Isis asked before Rishid could insist otherwise. His protective instincts would likely never go away.

“Sure. You’re both busy, and I’m not tired just yet. How long should I wait?”

Rishid looked at his watch. “An hour, to be safe. Can I get you anything before that? Coffee maybe?”

“That’s alright, thank you.” cue polite smile, earn their security.

“Okay then.” He gave Malik’s shoulder a squeeze. “Will you be okay if your friend stays up with you?” Malik looked at him, then gave Bakura another pointed glance, but he still nodded in approval. “Alright. Just say something if you need us.” Isis kissed his forehead before standing up, and they thanked Bakura before going to their rooms down the hall. Once the latches of their doors clicked Bakura dropped the facade and pulled Isis’ chair by the door to the sofa.

“No. No. Get the fuck away from me.” Malik spat. “If they weren’t so goddamn tired, I’d-” He hissed in pain from so much talking and fell silent with an angered grunt. 

“Do yourself a favor and shut up.” Bakura said coolly, and he rested his feet near Malik’s pelvis.

“Don’t.”

“Why? You seemed perfectly happy with kneeing me in the dick earlier.”

“God, don’t talk like that. I don’t want to hear anything about your dick ever again for the rest of my life.” He turned over a little and Bakura could see the red bitemark where he had sank his teeth into his jaw. How did Isis and Rishid not notice it? Maybe they just pretended not to.

He grinned. “Once when I was human, I nearly had it cut off.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“It’s a funny story, really.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Really I had it threatened more than once, but that was the only time it almost happened.”

“This is going to be the longest hour of my life…”

“It hasn’t even been five minutes.”

“Fuck. You.”


	4. The Wager

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol abuse. Like a lot of it. Also I'm not completely satisfied with this so expect some tweaking in the future. Nothing plot altering per se but yeah.

The sun was high in the sky when Malik awoke. When he opened his eyes, the light shone right into them, and he squinted until he readjusted, taking a look around the living room. His brother and sister had kept the lights off for him, but apparently forgot to close the curtains. Outside he could see the other skyscrapers, as well as a news helicopter probably giving the afternoon weather report. In the distance were the pyramids, as dark and standoffish in the desert as ever. He rubbed his eyes, but it sent bolts of irritation to his head. What happened last night? 

He got his answer when he turned his head to find Bakura staring at him. Malik flinched, he had forgotten he was even there, and the spirit smirked.

"Am I that scary?"

Malik frowned. "No, just ugly." Bakura snickered and got out of his chair, scratching his neck. "Did you even sleep?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. Not on purpose, and not for more than a few minutes." He looked terrible, gaunt and grey, eyelids red with exhaustion that he somehow didn't register. How was he even coherent? Was this the fourth or the fifth day?

"You need to." Malik said as he stood up. He had fallen asleep in his shoes and now his feet ached from how tightly they had been laced.

"If I wanted a life coach I would've gone and bothered Anzu."

"So you do know their names?" Malik raised an eyebrow. "I figured that was a little beneath your concerns."

Bakura sighed irritably. "The host and I see them almost every day, I'd have to be an idiot not to know by now." 

"Really? Then the guy with the dice, what's his name?"

"...It starts with a D?"

"It's Otogi, moron." Malik walked to the kitchen, where he began rummaging through the cabinets. 

Bakura looked indignant as he followed him and leaned against the counter. "He doesn't count. He's so flocked by squealing high school cheerleaders I can't even hear him speak."

Malik snickered despite how it made his head throb. "Doesn't Ryou have a fanclub?"

That made Bakura give him a sour look. "Don't remind me. And how do you know about that?"

"You got a lot of get well cards and flowers in the hospital, at least half were from them." Malik finally found the coffee beans tucked behind a few boxes of Rishid's tea. He adopted a high pitched falsetto as he poured them into the grinder. "Don't worry Bakura-kun! Scars are super manly! Get well soon!"

"I'm going to kill you."

"Go for it." Malik echoed one of their past conversations and Bakura's eye twitched. He deserved to be uncomfortable after fucking concussing him. Soon the coffee was brewing and Bakura cocked his head at the aroma. 

"I'm having some."

"Hey, you said I had to entertain you for a night, not make you pancakes the next morning."

"Don't be a dick."

"Says the guy that bruised my brain and bit me."

"How long are you going to hold that over my head?"

"As long as you're here." He still handed Bakura a mug from the cabinet, one of the generic ones Isis had been given by her job, as if it would compensate for the long hours. "Maybe longer if I ever see you again, but I hope that doesn't happen."

Bakura rolled his eyes. "You're heading back into dick territory." 

"Dick territory..." Malik scoffed, annoyed by Bakura's everyday speech pattern, but like hell he was going to fight about it again. He rummaged through the cabinet again until he found some dried cherries. "Whatever. If this bite gets infected and I lose this half of my face, I'm hunting you down. I don't care if you're in Burma or Russia or on the goddamn moon."

"That's not even your good side." Bakura said plainly, as if it wasn't odd. Malik stopped eating and gave him a look that asked for an explanation, and Bakura just shrugged again. "What? Everyone has a good and not good side of their face. The host is an artist, you pick up these things." That seemed to somewhat put Malik at ease, but only somewhat. His fingers rose and traced the mark again.

"Besides," Bakura added. "If I wanted it to get infected I would've actually broke the skin."

"So what the hell is this? A love bite?"

"And you think my phrasing is weird..."

"Shut up, I was being sarcastic."

"More importantly," the timer went off on the coffee machine and Malik filled both of their mugs. Bakura took a sip before continuing, despite the fact that it was nearly boiling. "Last night didn't count."

Malik couldn't help but lean forward at that. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"How did it not count?" Malik's mug hit the counter with a rattle, and some coffee sloshed out onto his hand. He gasped at the heat and quickly ran the burn under the tap, trying his best to ignore Bakura's smug smile.

"I wasn't entertained. And also I had to drag your sorry carcass home."

"That was your fault!" His raised voice made his spine jolt and he bit back a pained noise.

"Do you want me to get your bike?" Bakura produced the key from his pocket, how had he gotten that off him? Probably when he tripped over all those bicycles.

"You are completely insufferable." Malik punched each syllable. 

Bakura just tucked the keys back in his pocket. "I'd hurry up and get ready if I were you." 

Malik looked indignant as he grumbled to himself, and he left his sort-of breakfast unattended on the counter. He took a few steps, but stopped and turned back around. "You're coming with me, cmon."

"What?" It was Bakura's turn to be off-kilter, and Malik felt a little stab of victory when his eyes widened.

"You're a thief, I'm not leaving you alone in my house. Next thing I know everything that isn't nailed down will be gone."

Bakura gave it a moment of pause, but finally nodded. He had intended to poke around a little.

"Knew it." Malik beckoned him over and he followed reluctantly, but only a few paces before Malik stopped him again. "Hey, go in front of me and put your hands in your pockets."

Bakura groaned. "What's here to take? You've already pawned off the family jewels." But still he complied, a small sacrifice to get them out the door faster. They went down a small hallway and Malik prodded him into the room on the far left. 

The first thing Bakura noticed about Malik's room was that every light was turned on, even in the day time. The second was that the curtains were drawn, and judging by the early signs of fading they were never opened. Other than that there was nothing particularly unusual, save that it was a little bare with only a bed, dresser, desk, a lamp, a tall plant, and a rug. None of the extravagance Malik put into his appearance could be seen, save for the overflowing box of jewelry on the dresser and the plush blankets on the bed.  
"Your electricity bill must be a nightmare." He remarked.

"We can afford it. And it's not like you've ever had to pay any kind of bill so don't start." Malik was sitting on the bed and unlacing his shoes.

"Kind of a plain room for the once-future King, don't you think?"

"I don't like mess. Now that I'm not hopping from hotel to hotel and don't have maids I try to keep it simple."

"So the suites were...?"

"Much more ornate, yeah.” Malik motioned for him to turn around as he went to the dresser, and Bakura did so, crossing his arms and staring at the blank wall. “I made a parlor into a throne room in Moscow."

"You _didn't_."

"Yeah we were going to be there for a month or two so I made myself comfortable." There was no gain in telling Bakura any of this, except maybe his incredulity which was somewhat entertaining to see. 

"What exactly does that mean?" Bakura was stock still for once, so Malik knew he was really listening.

He changed clothes as he spoke. When he took off his shirt he frowned at the blood staining the front. There was no way that was coming out easy. "It was a nice suite, but I didn't like the wall hangings so I stole a Bridgeman, a Gentileschi, a Gerome, and a Bouguereau. Someone brought me a Haring, but I hate modern art so we sold that one." He had nearly forgotten about his various gold pieces, which he slid off and placed in the jewelry box before replacing a few with others. "On the first Saturday the hotel brought me a cake gilded in gold leaf, not a small one either, it was almost as tall as Rishid, and a girl jumped out and danced for us."

"Oh really?" Bakura's voice turned devilish and Malik rolled his eyes. "How was she?"

He searched for a word. "Pretty."

"Just pretty? How about flexible?"

"I wouldn't know." Malik said quickly. That was only half true, she had kissed him, but he had refused anything further. Why did Bakura have to make things so awkward? "I left the welcome party after that."

"I see. You don't settle for "pretty"."

"After that," Malik sharpened his tone on the edge of irritance to ward off Bakura's assumptions. "I bought an Italian vineyard and shipped some vintage rosés over. 1652 was the year they were made, they said it was a good one." He finished dressing and crossed over to Bakura, hitting the spirit's bony shoulder with his own on the way to grab a jacket that was carefully draped over his desk chair. 

"Why didn't you just drink vodka?" Bakura rubbed his shoulder with the beginnings of a frown on his face, but talking about Malik's exploits was engaging enough to keep him from seeking retribution. Malik in battle city, draped in gold and violet and black, who all but threatened to slit his throat if he didn't join forces with him, now that was the Malik he could see stealing priceless paintings for his own vanity, buying whole vineyards and snatching up their most prized wines. He could practically picture him in that old robe of his, leaving his own party and just pouring the contents of that priceless bottle out over his balcony with that same stone cold expression. But Malik now? He was irritable, clearly bored and unsatisfied even if he wouldn't admit it, not even to himself. He tried so hard to be good when he wasn't even decent.

"Because it was too easy to get."

There it was, a glimmer of his old self. Bakura returned that look and followed him out without complaint. He even asked questions as Malik brushed his teeth and applied kohl to his eyes, despite Malik's pointed looks when his mouth was occupied by a toothbrush, or "shut up" and "I'm concentrating" when doing his markings.

"Why do you still wear that?"

"Because as long as the pharaoh is still in this world I'm a tombkeeper, and this is our uniform, of a sort." He barely hid his disdain at the idea, something Bakura picked up on instantly. Not so eager to please now, was he? Malik could probably do those marks with his eyes closed, and he resented it, that was plain enough to see.

 

-

 

Bakura only gave him the keys when they reached the bike and they were perched upon it. Malik had offered him the helmet again but of course he refused.  
"I'm going to get a ticket thanks to your stubborn ass." Malik grumbled, and Bakura just laughed. 

"I thought you could afford it?"

Malik ignored that, and with a crack of the engine they were off again. The street was vastly different in the day, more tourists with families were out, and shops full of key chains with names like “Ashley” and “Bradley” embossed into the metal and scarves with nefertiti's profile on them were open right next to people who sold knockoff purses and postcards. Schoolchildren in uniforms walked hand in hand across the street, led by exasperated teachers who had to dodge skateboarding teenage delinquents once they reached the sidewalk. Exhaust, cooking food, sand, spiced perfumes, it all mingled together in the air. It may have made the inexperienced eye water, but the aroma woke Malik up, infected his senses and reminded him of a more concrete world that seemed so far away with Bakura's immortal stare searing his back. He searched his brain for something to do. There was what he really wanted, but Bakura wouldn't be pleased with looking at old artifacts and divulging their histories to him, to say the least. What did the spirit seem to like? Whatever it would be, it seemed firmly rooted in the present. 

"How about a movie? Just to kill time until later." Malik suggested once they came to a red light.

"Seems like a cop-out on your end." 

"Again, you have a better idea?" Silence. "Didn't think so." After a small traffic jam where Bakurs fruitlessly insisted they should drive on the sidewalk, they arrived at a veritable palace of a movie theater, one that had been converted from an old Edwardian opera house. 

 

-

 

It was almost dark when they walked out, still laughing at the scene they had caused. Bakura sauntered a little ways ahead of Malik and was buzzing with energy that seemed to fizz over at his edges. "I don't think we'll be allowed there again."

"Good riddance, we were simply pointing out the historical inaccuracy. Hell they should be thanking us." Malik plucked a bag of sweets from an unsuspecting cart owner before he even thought twice about it, but Bakura took one before his conscience got a chance to nag at him, and instead it was replaced with light amusement at Bakura's disgusted face at trying a piece of candy covered in paprika. Malik grinned at the sight and popped his own into his mouth, where it bubbled and popped on his tongue for only an instant before it was gone.

"I mean, the Romans were still eating bugs out of the ground during that particular dynasty. They wouldn't have even been a threat."

"People will do anything for a spectacle." Bakura spat out the candy which clattered against a fire hydrant. "Who cares if it wasn't exactly how it went?"

"When you think about it from that angle it doesn't seem important, but most people haven't actually lived through history, they want to get close to the real thing. But...did that really happen?"

"That story? Isn't it adapted from some holy book?" Malik nodded and Bakura spread open his palms. "If it happened it was long before I was around, I wouldn't-"

" _Tawaqquf! Is!_ "

Malik turned around to see an older, heavyset man in an apron pushing through the crowd, eyes locked on the two of them. Then he recognized him, the man who was selling what he now held in his hand. 

"Isn't that...?"

"Yeah."

"Should we...?"

"Probably." Bakura broke into a run, Malik hot on his heels as they weaved past women in niqabs and unattended kids playing frisbee. The last of the light was fading, and Malik could still hear the shopkeeper yelling for them, but accompanied by curse words as he was held back by the amount of people and his bulk, where his targets could easily slip between the cracks. Bakura was laughing as Malik finally surpassed him, and he looked at the spirit before taking a sharp left into an alley, then waited only for a second at the end before bouncing on his heels and climbing the chain link fence. Bakura was right behind him, but only for a moment before he pressed Malik into a shadowly wall, a finger to his grinning lips.

Malik looked through the woven metal to the end of the alley. The shopkeeper was at the end, looking around with hunched shoulders and steely determination in his jaw. Malik covered his mouth to keep from snickering as the man they robbed turned left to right cluelessly, and finally kicked a dumpster with a curse before stomping off. 

One, two, three seconds later the two of them bursted into laughter, Bakura moving back to let Malik away from the wall with his hands clutching his sides. "Ra, his face..." Malik said between the bouts. 

"Almost expected him to explode, fuck." Bakura was out of breath, but still smiling from ear to ear. "Did you see him knock over that kid on rollerblades?"

"Oh no."

"He went _flying_." Malik went into another fit, and Bakura realized this was probably the first time he'd seen him laugh where sarcasm or power madness didn't color it. It was actual, genuine happiness, it was strange to see but not altogether unpleasant, especially since he was the reason. He felt triumph in a way, causing something clearly no one had been able to in some time. It look like Malik had a shroud lifted from him, like he had really needed it.

Malik soon regained some composure, though he was still smiling and his voice was still light. "Alright, alright." Next to them there was a door, and he jerked a thumb toward it. "Looks like we're taking a detour."

Bakura went to it without complaint and tested the handle, and when he found it open he slipped in, Malik in tow. It was dark, and when Malik felt the side of the room it was a shelf with boxes. One was open and he felt dozens of tiny plastic bags.

"Convenience store." He said.

"Great, I can get something to wash the taste of that nasty thing you gave me."

"You would've complained if I didn't offer you any."

"That's fair." When Bakura opened the door of the storeroom it was behind the counter, but the attendant was off restocking the freezer. He looked up, where a camera was fixed to the ceiling. "Hold on."

The ring glowed under his shirt for a second and the camera made a sharp whirring noise, then a tiny crack as the machinery inside tore itself apart. The lights stopped blinking just as Bakura and Malik slipped out and went to the shelf nearest the door. The attendant looked up and flinched in surprise, then said something about not hearing them come in before finishing his work and going to the counter. Malik gave him a friendly wave before turning back to Bakura.

"Be quick about it." He said with a sudden bout of impatience. 

The spirit blinked at the sudden and frankly uncalled for shift in mood. "Worry about yourself." He retorted, and Malik just scoffed before turning on his heel and going to the beverages.

Bakura wrinkled his nose at his back and looked over the rows of brightly packaged snacks beforeinspecting a bag of something sour the host seemed to be fond of, so of course he had to be as well. Playing to the likes and dislikes of this body became more tedious by the day, things he had once savored were now insufferable, and others he wouldn't have even have the stomach to look at appealed somehow. It wasn't just food either, textures and colors felt and looked different through new skin, stolen eyes. He set the bag back on the rack and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Malik came back to him with a pack of gum and a bottle of sprite. "Sometime today would be nice." He remarked, before going up to pay. Bakura just scowled and stalked after him empty handed as they left the store and wove back through the streets until they found Malik's bike. 

"Any particular reason you've decided to be a bastard again?" Bakura asked bitterly, but when Malik turned around his mood was gone, and he opened his jacket to reveal a bottle of schnapps tucked in the inside pocket.

"...Oh."

"If we kept giggling like schoolgirls he would've known something was up." Malik said simply, nudging Bakura's shoulder. "I mean, I know I have a temper, but damn, you didn't think I was actually pissed after all that, did you?"

He knew damn well that he was a good actor, that smug look on his face said so, and Bakura just gave him another sly smile rather than admit how unpleasantly surprised he had been. "It's hard to tell with your famous mood swings, Ishtar."

"Shut up." 

"Make me."

"There's still time to frame you." 

"If I'm going down, you're going down with me." Malik just shook his head at that and climbed on his bike, zipping his jacket up and donning his helmet while Bakura got behind him, and then they were off, speeding between cars and even one red light. Bakura absentmindedly looked around for that blue Mercedes they had trashed the night before, as if by some miracle it could be in working condition after its front bumper was nearly stripped from the frame. Of course it was nowhere to be seen which was a little disappointing, taunting that couple may have just been the ticket that Malik could've used to rightfully oust him from his home the next day, now he wasn't leaving without at least an hour of solid taunting, though by the looks of it Malik would happily banter back.

Isis’ car was in its spot, and Bakura heaved a sigh while Malik just nodded. "I know."

There was a tone underlying that statement, but the last thing Bakura wanted was to be involved in any sort of inter-family strain, and it didn't seem that Malik wanted him to prod any further into what he meant, so it was left on its own. Bakura just got that mischievous look again when something else occurred to him. "Give me the bottle."

"What for?" Malik still handed it over once they were by the elevator, and Bakura just cracked it open and took a long drink, and it would've been longer if Malik hadn't taken it back. "Slow down, damn."

"I bet you I can still fool your brother and sister, or at least make them think I'm sober." Bakura wagered, and he blinked a few times as he steadied himself. Malik measured just how much he had taken with his fingers, and when they came back from the glass they were a little more than three and a half inches apart. Almost four shots of schnapps, and taken so quickly, it would make an average person stumble. 

"What are you betting exactly?" Malik tucked the bottle back inside his jacket and Bakura thought for a moment before rummaging through his pockets. When he opened his palm the light the object attracted nearly made it impossible to see, but as it faded the round shape became clear: the millennium eye.

"How did you..?" Pegasus had been found dead in his castle after Duelist Kingdom, his eyes gouged out. It made too much sense. "Nevermind. You're on." Bakura was collecting items, it's not like he would grow bored and toss it out a window anytime soon, and he had mentioned reuniting them with Yugi sometime in the near future. Still, it wouldn't hurt if Malik had the eye in his possession, especially when the other clan was searching for it.

"That's what I like to hear." Bakura slid it back into his pocket after a couple tries, and Malik became very confident in this bet. Ryou was obviously not a drinking type, really two shots would've made him a little off kilter, but twice that many insured his siblings' suspicion at least.

"Let's make things interesting." Malik said before taking the bottle back out his own long swig, tilting his head back with it. "First who gets caught loses."

"And what are you betting?"

"My back.”

"Which you should've followed up on anyway..."

"You lost, so no."

"Whatever, that's not important right now."

"Right. Now let's kill some time, so it really hits us." The bottle, now half full, was hidden again, and they looked out over the balcony where the neighboring skyscrapers stood shimmering and bright. The minutes ticked by as they looked into the one directly across that was close enough to see into, offices where men and women were departing, soon replaced by a janitor bobbing his head to tinny music filtering through their standard white apple headphones. One arrived while one of the office people was still there, and even from their distance it was clear how harshly, excessively, that he was being reprimanded. 

"Shit never changes." Bakura said with distaste. The ends of his words weren't clean cut as the alcohol moved through his system.

"That's not always a bad thing." Malik said. 

Bakura bit the inside of his cheek. “Suffering under the hands of a master is barbaric in any era.”

Malik’s fingers drummed against his thigh before he spoke. “What were you before?”

The spirit didn’t look back at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know, before.” Malik knew how he sounded, slow and stupid and insistent like a child, but luckily Bakura’s opinion was hardly ever something to be taken seriously. “When you were human. You talk about riding a horse, and now this whole sympathy thing?”

“Sympathy is a strong word. I was just observing the pettiness of humans and their habit of repeating themselves over and over.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“And I don’t plan to.” Bakura gave a thin laugh. “I’m not drunk enough for that, Ishtar. You look a little wide-eyed though.”

Malik scoffed. “Do not. This is nothing.”

“We’ll let Isis and Rishid be the judge of that.” Bakura sauntered back the elevator and Malik followed, a little annoyed that he had let himself get sidetracked. It was a long ride, but neither said much aside from the occasional taunt as they climbed up to the topmost floors where the Ishtars lived. They exited laughing, in a fashion that was mean to hide keep it quiet but didn’t quite work. Bakura was in front, so when he wasn't looking Malik took a drink of Sprite to clear his head, and also put a piece of gum in his mouth to hide any slurring, even if he wasn't quite to that point. No one said he had to play fair. He still managed to almost trip, but when Bakura looked back he was upright and not at all overcompensating in his efforts to hide his impaired motor skills. Getting the key in the lock was another challenge, but Malik’s poker face was good even when he was tipsy, and he got it open before Bakura could use it against him.

“You should really tell one of us when you’re going to be out late.” Isis said as soon as they walked in. She wasn’t even looking at them, instead focusing her eyes on the papers in lap from her place at the couch.

“We caught a movie. Where’s Rishid?” Malik had to will himself from leaning against the doorframe in a lame attempt to be casual. Bakura was in full Ryou disguise, from the way he stood to the absence of that wolfish grin in his eye. 

“He’ll be home soon.” Isis said, shuffling her papers. “Which movie was it?”

“Bad.”

“...Which, not how.” She looked up, eyebrow quirked, and Malik could practically hear Bakura’s silent laughter.

“Oh, that one James Cameron thing.”

“You gave your money to _that?_ ”

Normally that would’ve pissed him off, but he was more preoccupied with appearing normal. “I had to see just how bad it is. It’s still flopping. Bakura here,” He pushed him forward a little and shut the door behind him. “Loved it. Didn’t you, Bakura?”

Bakura gave a polite laugh. “Well I don’t know about love…but the effects were impressive. I understand it’s inaccurate.” Small smile, pleasant tone, he had gotten better at impersonating Ryou since Battle City.

“To say the least.” She nearly bent her head again, but looked back up at the last second. “Why are you all red, Bakura?”

Ryou’s pale skin tone was revealing more than Bakura had anticipated and Malik bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Oh, this?” Bakura laughed lightly, but he was wracking his thoughts for a reason. It’s not as though they ran, the wind wasn’t icy cold to make your skin raw, what else? “Malik told me a really good joke on the way up. I was laughing the whole way here.”

“It must've been hilarious.”

“Yes, I’d say so.”

“What was it, Malik?” 

Both of them looked at Malik now and he took a half second to re-engage. “The joke? Uh, I don’t remember.”

“You just told it. What, do you not think I’d get it?”

“Well…”

“Because I get jokes.” She even seemed a little defensive, which was odd and a little uncalled for in Malik’s opinion. “Tell me.”

“Okay…” Shit. Bakura was waiting with that fake, deceiving little smile, and Malik could’ve punched him again. Which reminded him that he had punched Ryou’s body in the kidney last night and should probably ask Bakura to pass along an apology, because he wasn’t apologizing to the spirit one bit. Did he even know jokes? Not really, except for one he heard on a sitcom the other day. “Here goes. Alright. So there’s this guy going to prom. You know, prom? The American thing? And he’s taking the girl of his dreams. He goes and gets fitted for a tux, make sure they coordinate and everything. Apparently they take pictures so that goes well too, but they get ripped off on appetizers at the restaurant so they don’t eat, which is also apparently really important to the ritual.” Bakura was already giggling at how he was floundering, but to Isis it just looked like he really did find this joke funny somehow. “So they get to the dance, which is what prom is, I just remembered. And she asks the guy if he could get her some food, since they didn’t eat. So he goes but he comes right back and he’s like ‘the line was too long’ so she asks if he could go get her something from the dessert table, but he comes right back again and says ‘the line was too long’. He can tell she’s not happy so he’s trying to really impress her now and is about to go back in line, but she just settles for the ruin this evening is turning into and asks him to get her some punch.” Isis looked a little confused, not by the joke itself but by the fact that Malik was telling it at all and that Bakura Ryou somehow found it hysterical. “So he goes to that table and comes right back with punch. And she asks ‘how were you so quick?’ and he answers: ‘because there was no punchline’.” Isis wasn’t laughing, but Bakura was almost crying with how hard he was trying not to lose it, and Malik elbowed him before spreading his palms out and giving a sheepish smile.

“The end?”

“That was...something.” She forced a little laugh to try and validate him but neither knew it worked, so she just cleared her throat and looked back to her work. “Very amusing.”

“We’re going to my room now, bye.” Malik said quickly before tugging Bakura to follow. As soon as the door shut Bakura was howling, and Malik whacked him in the skull.

“You put me on the spot, asshole!”

“Oh my god, oh my god…”

“Shut up! I was so close-” But now he was already sniggering between his words, and as soon as he and Bakura made eye contact they were both in stitches. 

“She’s going to hear us.” Bakura said after they both regained their breath, but Malik shook his head.

“The walls are really thick, we’d have to be shouting. And besides, for all she knows,” He pulled the bottle from his jacket. “We’re just two dumb kids laughing over a stupid joke.”

“Where’d you pick that up anyway?”

“The store, you were there.”

“The joke, idiot.”

“Full House, jackass.” Malik crossed to his bed and took a seat, sinking into his thick blankets. "It's some American show about four brats being raised by their incompetent father. An after school special."

Bakura pulled up the chair and snatched the bottle from Malik as he tried to take a sip. "It's your favorite, isn't it?" He asked before bridging it to his lips.

"No! It was just on. I don't have anything to do all day so it's hours of daytime tv for me." 

"Then you should be thanking me for getting you out of the house, huh?"

"Don't push it." Malik took his alcohol back before Bakura could have another swig.

"Relax for once." The spirit said, and he propped his feet up on the bed which made Malik frown.

"You say as you get my sheets dirty with your gross shoes.”

“These happen to be Ryou’s favorite shoes, I’m telling him you said that.” As Bakura untied his nikes Malik realized that was the first time he’d ever heard him say Ryou’s name, even in Battle City he called him “host” or “landlord”. It was strangely personal.

“So you guys can talk to each other?” 

“Yeah. The Pharaoh and Motou are constantly talking, we’re less frequent, but it’s possible.” He tossed the shoes aside and placed his socked feet back on the bed. There was a pause, and then he spoke again before Malik could. “It wasn’t the same with you two, I’m guessing.”

Malik looked at him for a long moment, then took a long drink of the schnapps. When he had to blink a few times to bring the world into focus he answered. “No. It didn’t think in words.” He handed the bottle to Bakura, who eyed it as if debating whether to indulge again. “Anyway, you need to take a toothbrush and some bleach to those.”

“If you care so much, why don’t you do it?”

“Because I’m not your nanny. More importantly, who won that little wager?”

Bakura hummed and pulled the eye from his pocket, tossing it in the air and catching it as he pondered. Malik watched it rise and fall. “Well you were the most bumbling…”

“She suspected you more, that was obvious.” Malik pointed out.

The spirit gave a bark of a laugh. “Please, you weren’t fooling anybody.”

Malik tore his eyes from the millennium item currently being tossed like a hacky sack. “I would’ve been fine if you hadn’t screwed me over.” 

“No one said we had to play fair.” 

“...Okay. Fine. Speaking of, I cheated.” 

Bakura blinked. “What?” Malik just blew a bubble with his gum in response to his flat little question, and after a moment of searching he held up the bottle of sprite he had tossed onto his pillow like it was some kind of trophy.

“Oh go fuck yourself.” Bakura was trying not to laugh. “You fucking snake.” He gave Malik’s thigh a kick, and Malik just smirked and laid back on the bed, supported by his elbows.

“I had a way to give myself an edge, why not take it?”

“Spoken like a true bastard.” He finally set the schnapps down on the floor, any more and he would lose this pleasant little interval between drunk and blurry.

“Don’t be mad because you didn’t think of it first.”

“You’re not wrong. You’re still a cheating fuck though.” He looked the eye over, turning it this and way and that as the light glanced off the round surface, then pocketed it once more. It was warm against his leg, like it had been left out in the sun instead of ripped from a mans very alive, very agonized head almost a year ago. “But we’ll call it a draw, unless you want a second round?”

“Tomorrow, I don’t want to deal with her again.” Bakura ignored the second part of that sentence, more focused on that fact that Malik more or less just offered to keep him another night totally of his own free, if slightly impaired, will. 

“Aw, am I growing on you, Ishtar?” He leered, and Malik just rolled his eyes.

“No.” He insisted, but Bakura didn’t look any less self-satisfied. “But you were right earlier, you get me out of the house.”


	5. The Host

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is. really late I'm sorry. life has been happening in a big way.

When Ryou opened his eyes it was to see yet another unfamiliar ceiling. 

His head was pounding, but that was typical for when he came out of the hazes. The spirit didn’t even drink water over the course of his time with their vessel, he came to expect a sore throat, a headache, and cramped muscles from him. When he moved his legs from the bed they were resting on the sinews seemed to sigh in relief and one of his kneecaps popped back into its place, making him only give the slightest of grimaces at the pain. Taking a glance around the room, he took in the rest of his surroundings. Bedroom, that was obvious, very minimalist. The lights were on for some reason. Ryou rolled his shoulders as he got to his feet, and when glanced at the bed he saw a brown arm and blond hair sticking out from under the red covers. Malik.

The missing weight of his feet on the bed was noticed and Malik emerged from the blankets, kohl smeared and a click in his jaw he righted with two fingertips massaging the muscle. He took in the sight of him casually at first, then as his eyes adjusted to being open and alert there was a start in his expression. “Ryou?”

“Yeah.” Ryou reached inside his shirt and pulled the ring out, and a low thrum went through the room. He couldn't help but look at it closely, as he had hundreds of times before, but only for a moment before he let it fall against his chest. “This is Egypt, isn't it?”

Malik nodded and sat up, a little sluggish still. His hand swiped under his eye and felt the loose kohl there, then he looked to the mess the markings left on his pillow and frowned briefly before looking back to Ryou. “Cairo. He flew you out here. I tried to send him back but he wouldn't listen.” That was barely true, but lying had almost been a reflex.

“You thought he would listen?” Ryou snorted at that, but it only prompted a deep cough and Malik actually showed a flash of concern, which was so utterly foreign to Ryou’s experience with him that it was almost uncomfortable. Malik shouldn't worry about him, not when he had once been more than happy to make him bleed. Yet, where Ryou should've felt contempt, there was only pity. Malik’s motives in Battle City were vague to him, but he understood how deeply that pain had run through him, as well as how it felt to be a spectator to your own body. He couldn't hate him really, not with how chilling the term “tombkeeper” merely sounded. That was all Malik had divulged to the spirit in their time together, but it implied something terrifying and acute. However, he was a far cry from trusting him.

“I kept an eye on him.” Malik said after a pause. “But he told me that he hadn't slept in days.”

“He does that. I think he forgets how bodies work sometimes.” Malik was looking at the ring as Ryou was talking, but when the host noticed he looked back up again.

“So...what are you planning?” He asked, and he worked himself from the tangle of blankets and stood up. 

“Go home, go to school.” Ryou began to notice his stale clothes, his long nails, the spirit had truly neglected their vessel. “You know, what I should be doing right now.”

Malik paused for a half second before answering. “I see.”

Ryou nodded, and how he was trying to decipher what that meant didn’t show on his face. Then a more urgent thought occurred to him. “Did he hurt anybody?”

“No, I made sure.” When Malik said that Ryou sighed in relief. There was one less thing he had to worry about. He turned to leave the room, but Malik cleared his throat.

“Wait, Ryou,” when he turned back Malik looked like he had something important, something weighing on the tip of his tongue, but swallowed it back. “You can clean up if you want, I have some old clothes you can use, and you can eat something too. He told me he doesn't do that much either.”

Ryou took in the sight of the man who had before insisted the spirit sacrifice him to the darkness for his own gain. He looked on edge, borderline sheepish, it was a little unsettling, but more humanizing. Maybe his reformation was actually gaining results, even despite some of the trouble the spirit had mentioned in their heart. Then again, Ryou couldn’t judge anyone for less than savory actions. “Thanks Malik.”

He just nodded and began rummaging through the bottom drawer of his dresser, and eventually he produced a t-shirt soft with age and sun, and a pair of jeans. A moment later and he had a rolled up belt from the top drawer, as well as socks and such. “I'm going to get some of the dirt off your shoes, if that's alright.” 

Ryou just smirked and took the clothes he was handed. “Yeah, he said you thought they were disgusting.”

Malik sighed. “Right…”

“You also said we were ugly.”

Malik remembered what he said in his post-concussion state and did his best to hide an embarrassed wince. “Oh, no. That was just to piss him off, I don't think you're...yeah, no.”  
Ryou raised his eyebrows. “So you think I’m good looking?”

“I…” Malik stopped before he truly embarrassed himself. Ryou may have been handsome beneath the bags under his eyes and the dullness of his dehydrated skin, he had a fanclub for a reason after all, but that wasn’t important. “You're just trying to make me squirm, aren't you?” 

“Couldn't help it.” Ryou wore a ghost of a smile as he padded off, quiet as a breath, and Malik tried not to draw comparisons between him and the spirit before he grabbed Ryou’s shoes and his own set of clothes, he could borrow Isis’ shower while she was out.

 

-

 

When Ryou had locked the door behind him and took his shirt off, the first thing he noticed was the scars, as usual. He skimmed his thumb over one in the ring upon his chest, and while the skin was still rough they were healing over surprisingly well, but that wasn't saying much considering they came from burning pieces of metal forcing their way into his chest like shrapnel. The one on his left arm was still fairly fresh, red and puffed up like sick peacock feathers from where the stitches had been. At least his hand was almost mended, only a jagged circle slightly darker than the rest of the skin showing where the spirit had impaled it on the monster world set. Ryou had dulled the sharp pointed roofs of the castle after that. Then there were the outlines of his ribs, the cut of his pelvic bones, sharp clavicles, he had to convince Bakura to eat more. At that he shook his head, it still felt odd calling him by the name they inexplicably shared. Something he couldn't explain, however, were the fading bruises along his sides, but he was used to random injuries at this point, putting it lightly.

“What are these from?” He asked the air, and when he glanced at his reflection it scoffed back at him and moved to avoid his gaze on its own. 

“Your pal and I got into a fight for a minute,” The spirit looked at his fingernails with disinterest. “He packs one hell of a punch.”

“No kidding, they really hurt.”

“Then stop pressing them, idiot.” Ryou frowned and took his fingers from the bruise near his kidney and rummaged through the right side drawer. He found the nail clippers and began working at the uneven points, and Bakura frowned when his momentary distraction disappeared before his eyes with each snip.

“I’m surprised you let him get that far, it’s not like it would’ve been hard to kill him with the ring and all.”

Bakura grinned. “Ah, you want me to kill him then?”

“I didn't-!” Ryou took a deep breath and regulated his tone. “I didn't say that. I don't want you to hurt anyone, we’ve been over this. But you do it anyway so I'm a little surprised you didn't do anything to him.”

The reflection shrugged. “No point. He entertains me. You saw how fun it is to make him scramble.” When Ryou finished he set the ring on the counter and Bakura scowled at the clatter it made against the marble.

“Entertains you? Sounds generous. Almost like a compliment.” Ryou looked the spirit dead on, almost a little amused. “As if you like him.”

Bakura rolled his eyes though he was biting his tongue for a moment before speaking. “You know better than that. I don’t generally receive punches from people I like.”

“What happened, exactly?”

“We got into an argument.”

“That was obvious enough.” Ryou pressed his fingers into one coloring his ribs again and he jolted at the pain.

“Stop that, you’ll make them worse. I concussed him though, so we’re even.”

“Fair enough… I just didn't like the look he just gave me. Like he had something to say.”

“He's probably guilty about everything that happened in Battle City, tearing you open and burning us to death and all that.” After a beat he added “Twice.”

“That could be…”

“You worry too much, landlord.” The spirit had his palms against the glass and smiled again. “Remember when we played Bloody Mary? When you thought I was just a ghost?”

“And you broke my mirror? Yeah.” Ryou took a step to the side but his reflection didn't follow. “And you're still just a ghost.”

The spirit chuckled as he tapped a random little rhythm into the glass. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Ryou just shook his head and finished undressing before he stepped into the shower.

 

-

 

Malik had set newspaper down on the dining room table, and Ryou’s shoes sat upon it. He had the right one in one hand and an unused toothbrush from under Isis’ sink in the other, and he dipped it in a cup of bleach water before he started scrubbing at the material again. He had really behaved like an idiot back there, and while at least he hadn’t stuttered, he had to admit with a tinge of self-contempt that his concern for Ryou had almost taken the backburner in his thoughts, which added to his already extensive lists of wrongdoings against the host. Was he that selfish? To sacrifice Ryou’s well being for some drinks and petty theft? Clearly Bakura hadn’t told him everything otherwise he would’ve known that they were in Egypt, and here Malik was omitting details like beating him black and blue and keeping Bakura around longer than he had to, just to cover for him. He did this even when Bakura’s habits were taking their toll on Ryou’s body, just sleeping for a few hours had improved his overall look, but only from haggard to exhausted. Reality was setting in again. Malik had a goal and that was retribution. Bakura’s mere presence was a stumble backwards, back into the darkness that couldn’t take physical form anymore, but could scratch his mind to ribbons if it was given the opportunity. The thought felt like a cold hand pressing into his back, and he couldn’t help but flinch when footsteps of an unknown tenant sounded somewhere below his feet. Malik shook it off with an irritable roll of his eyes, jumping at shadows in the middle of the day, how cowardly could he get? 

He had stopped scrubbing, and he caught himself and started again with fervor. Bakura and Ryou’s relationship seemed difficult to define. Ryou didn't even seem to see his body as solely his own anymore, and Bakura’s rash actions seemed more annoying than frightening to him. How many strange places had the spirit left that poor boy over the years? It made Malik bite the inside of his cheek in irritance. With the good time he had last night he had nearly forgotten Bakura’s parasitic nature, and how he knew all too well what Ryou was dealing with. The spirit was above all self-serving, Malik couldn't let his guard down too much. Yet when Bakura could've easily done him harm, let him get caught, he made sure that didn't happen. Did he simply see Malik as more of an equal? No, despite how he used Ryou he always spoke as if it was the mortal who was in charge of things. Malik sighed and rubbed one eye with the back of his hand. Trying to figure Bakura out was like solving a rubix cube when half of it was welded into the wrong configuration from the start. 

When he finished the sneakers looked more broken in than outright dirty, which was refreshing to see. There was no way to really make up for what he had done, and Ryou was just one of many he would never stop owing, but he could do a few small kindnesses while he was around. Malik left the shoes out on the balcony to dry. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair and began cleaning up his mess, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Ryou step out into the hall. He held the ring in one hand almost carelessly, and as he pulled the cord over his head Malik saw the scar on his arm, angry and dark, for too long of a moment before he lowered his arms and the sleeve fell back over it. He looked a little brighter, more content and at ease, and a lot less grey and distant.

“Sorry if I used all your hot water.”

“We don't have to worry about that.” Malik just gestured at the kitchen, and this pleased his guest, who almost couldn't decide between what seemed an endless amount of choices. 

 

-

 

As Ryou went through the cabinets Bakura bided time. This was always the most tedious, waiting for Ryou to be well enough to let him take over. Every second felt like an eternity and eternity felt like the blink of an eye. Time had no meaning, for all he knew the host was on the plane home and his fun was over, a possibility he didn't want to entertain when Malik proved to be more worthy of his attention then he first considered. This chamber was the worst part of the waiting. Three stone walls, one end of a corridor that stretched into infinite, ever-deepening darkness. He had tried finding the other end countless times, but always at some point he would feel a slow, creeping, all-consuming aversion. Fear wasn't the right word, there were very few things he was afraid of and pain and death were not among them, but it was a deep, almost primal need to get away from there. On the few occasions he forced himself to take a few steps anyway he would sometimes hear a voice or two, but they were always just out of earshot and he couldn't push himself any further, and so they chattered on endlessly in some conversation he wasn't entitled to. It was frustrating, this was his item, he claimed it thousands of years ago and learned its secrets far more intimately than the damn priest he took it from had ever managed to do, and yet there were still some forces within it that would not bend to his will. 

He turned his head to the door next to him. It had appeared when Ryou wore the item for the first time, the door to his soul room. Bakura had pulled, pushed, pounded, picked, and kicked at it, but it never opened and likely never would. Sometimes he peered through the keyhole, and at first he could see light, feel a refreshing sigh of a breeze, but at some point Ryou draped some dark cloth over the tiny opening, so now the door just mocked him. Another mystery he couldn't solve. He had memorized every crack and fissure of this end of the hall, every chip and mismatching shade of stone. There wasn't even anything to write with, no charcoal or chalk, just millennia of staring at the same three walls and the foreboding dark hallway before him with its sourceless whispers. His teeth gritted but he could only faintly feel the sensation without a body, it was like his mouth was full of cotton and sand. Ryou had to let him out soon, it wasn't fair, his hosts soul room seemed calm and open, not low and close like his dwelling, akin to the secret passages of the tombs he robbed. It couldn’t be as maddening in there. He could at least let him in, he had certainly demanded it dozens of times. But Ryou steadily refused time and time again, always looking at him with those dead, enigmatic, loathing eyes they had to share. When Bakura was free he'd put those eyes out himself.

 

-

 

“Staying in Cairo then?” Malik asked Ryou once he was sated.

“For a day or two, just so I can wait for my allowance to come in. My dad always sends it at the beginning of each month.” Ryou’s finger circled the rim of his glass of orange juice as he stared out the glass balcony doors. “He’s working in Brazil right now, but since he has a few hotels that consider him a frequent guest here I can get a room for a decent price.”

Malik stepped on his own foot under the table to keep it from bouncing and giving away his uneasiness. “That’s good. But what are you going to do if he tries to take control again?”

“It’s not that simple, ever since one incident he can’t take control without my permission.” 

That was certainly enigmatic, but Malik wasn’t about to pry. “Still, what if he does?”

Ryou just shook his head. “I’m not too worried to be honest. He likes being around you, not that he’ll admit it.”

Malik couldn't help but make an incredulous face at that. “I think that's giving him a little too much credit.”

Ryou shrugged and took one of the points of the ring in his hand, testing the sharpness against the pad of his thumb. “He likes annoying you.”

“Now that's more accurate.” Malik watched him absentmindedly. Could Bakura feel that? 

“It's the closest he gets to affectionate.”

“If there's anyone's affection I can live without it’s his.”

“You're preaching to the choir.” 

“Right- sorry.”

“Don't be.” Ryou let go of the ring and Malik finally tore his eyes from the item. “Can I use your phone?”

“Feel free.” Malik waved him off and Ryou lingered for a moment before going to the sideboard where the phone was resting. It was hard not to listen in, but Ryou spoke quietly and formally into the receiver, almost to a fault. Then again, Malik didn't exactly have any place to judge anyone's relationship with their father.

“Thank you Maeda. Could you tell him I appreciate it? Oh good.” Ryou said a little more loudly, and then Malik realized that he hadn't even been talking to his father in the first place. Mother? No, he wouldn't address her like she was a stranger. An assistant then. Ryou had mentioned how his father was working in Mongolia and was a frequent visitor to Egypt, that had archeologist written all over it. That would explain how he may have gotten the ring in the first place, though how it didn't wind up in a museum was puzzling. Ryou hung up and jotted down an address with the stationary Isis kept religiously neat on the table, then shoved the piece of paper into his pocket. When he turned around Malik wiped the inquisitive look off his face and replaced it with a neutral one. 

“So…” Ryou clasped his hands together. “I have an address.”

Malik could only blink in acknowledgment. “Can you get there on your own or do you want me to take you there?”

“I can manage. It’s the Le Riad, pretty well known.” Another awkward pause, Malik felt like sinking into the floor. “I’ll just grab my clothes…” Ryou said as he moved to do just that. He had found a reusable shopping bag that the Ishtars seemed to have no shortage of, and had placed it on the couch before eating. “and, yeah, be on my way. I’ll bring yours back before I leave.”

Malik just looked at the clock on the wall, anything to avoid Ryou’s eyes. “Um, sounds good.”

“Great.” Ryou said, and then almost under his breath. “Fantastic.” and like that he was pulling on his shoes and crossing to the door, glancing back at Malik only for a second before shutting it behind him.

The click of the handle almost echoed in that empty house. Malik sighed, but he couldn’t tell if it was relief or something a lot more grey. It was for the best, the spirit had already caused him enough strife, stealing and fighting and racing were all things he needed to keep in his past. The fact that he had even let some thousand year old ghost knock him off track in the first place was ridiculous. The newfound quiet, no longer permeated with their bullet-esque banter, seemed too close to the skin, and Malik felt his teeth begin to grind.

 

-

 

“Landlord.”

“No.”

“Landlord...”

“I said no.”

“I don’t even know why you’re so eager to go back…”

“Because I have to. Because unlike you I have a future at stake.”

“If I was anyone else that might’ve hurt. But I thought we had an agreement?”

“We agreed that we’d work together to learn about the items and collect them, not that you could ruin my life any more than you already have.”

“Fair. But you don’t know what it’s like.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t believe you, not with that tone. It’s dark Ryou, it’s dark and endless.”

“...That’s not my problem.”

“Your soul room is light and open, the powers of the ring can’t touch you there, but they’re waiting for me in the dark.”

“Good, maybe they’ll get rid of you.”

“You don’t mean that. Besides, if I’m gone, you’ll never discover the secrets of the items. You need me.”

“Not as much as you need me.”

“Then what do you have to lose?”

“...”

“Landlord.”

 

-

 

The TV was glowing and electric chatter was droning through the apartment, but no one was watching. Rishid and Isis were at the table, papers spread out and mingling over the surface, and totally engrossed in their tasks. Isis had the end of a pencil between her teeth as she read over some journal or another from the historical society, and looked so intently the edges of her eyelids had an exhausted red tint. Rishid was nursing a mug of coffee, and when he sat up straight for the first time in an hour his back cracked so loudly that Isis flinched and finally tore her eyes from her work. 

“Maybe you should lie down.” she suggested, but he just shook his head. 

“I have to finish this. You’ve been at this even longer than I have though, you should take a break.” he caught her incredulous look. “Just for a few minutes.”

“A few minutes turns into an hour which turns into tomorrow which turns into never.” She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and called out to her other sibling. “Malik? Have you given any thought to what I said the other day?”

Malik didn’t even lift his head up from the couch, and he rolled his eyes before answering. “Some. I’m still not sure if that’s what I want to do.”

She placed her hands back on the table, and already she was scanning the documents before her. “It wouldn’t have to be forever, just to get you out and have something to do with your time.”

“I don’t know.”

Rishid looked over to Malik, but couldn’t see him over the back of the couch. Isis spoke up again, this time a little more insistent. “It’s almost been a week since I suggested it. Our insight is highly valued at the historical society, you wouldn’t be fetching coffees or anything like that.” 

“I said I don’t know.”

“Well you can’t stay here day in and day out.” Isis’ tone was more authoritative now, Malik did his best not to make a face at that, but Isis took the silence in a different way. “I’m serious. Malik, it’s not healthy.”

“Sorry I don’t want to be your lackey. Why don’t you get your assistant to deal with that ridiculous workload of yours and leave me the fuck alone?” The second it left his lips Malik regretted those words, and by the dead silence he knew he had gone too far. 

Isis took a deep breath and stood up, taking controlled steps towards him. Each one of her footfalls made Malik’s guilt only deepen. “Is that what you really want?” He turned on his side when she reached the sofa, and he only got a glance of her hand on the back of it before he was staring at the TV, though not watching. “After everything we’ve done to be together again, you want me to leave you alone?” 

She was hurt, he could tell even though she hid the emotion in her voice so well. She was all control, restraint, he was all too familiar. The remnant of his anger was still sizzling under his skin and he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. Both Isis and Rishid were waiting for an answer, one he didn’t have. There wasn’t a way to tell them that they were either smothering him or totally absent, that their expectations were inconsistent, that Isis’ distrust and Rishid’s dehumanizing reverence were still present in every move, every word they delivered to him. 

Malik was on his feet in a second and halfway out the door in two, and Isis was straining not to shout but he wasn’t listening, and soon enough he was in the elevator and pressing the button to the parking garage. The night air bit at his bare arms but it barely registered over his racing thoughts, but each one was separate and only left an impression before switching, so there were no words in his mind but only conflicting emotion. His keys were in his pocket, but when he reached for his cell phone he swore when both pockets turned up empty, only some change jingling. Before he thought to hesitate he had donned his helmet and was racing down the ramp and onto the street. He had clipped a sharp edge in his haste and a thin cut appeared, a thin drop of blood pricking down his arm. He only stopped when he caught sight of a pay phone, and after dropping his scattered coins into the slot he held the receiver to his ear, not even sure if he wanted an answer or not. 

A click as the line connected. “Front desk? Bakura Ryou’s room, now.” A pause, some music so cheerful and jingly it made his teeth clench. Another click, and the line was barely alive before he was talking. “Ryou? Hey, I got the number from the phone book, I shouldn’t be bothering you or whatever but can we just-”

“Well, this is a surprise.”

A chill went through him. Bakura. Was that what he was hoping for? He perished the thought. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Don’t act like you're so chill now, not with whatever you were just rambling about.”

Again with the slang. Whatever, he could ignore that and get right to the heart of things. “Can I meet you somewhere?”

Something clattered on the other end, like he knocked something over. “Shut up, are you serious?”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“Damn, something has you in a mood…”

“Holy Ra, are we meeting up or not?”

“Sure, you know where to find me.” He hung up, and Malik felt the tension that threatened to snap his veins ease away. Le Riad, that was maybe half a mile from where he was standing. As he straddled his bike again he realized he had no plan for this encounter, no activity or even a topic besides his recent blunder concerning his family, which Bakura surely didn’t want to hear nor deserved to. Hadn’t he sworn to keep the spirit at arms length just that morning? It felt like days ago.

Bakura was actually waiting outside when he arrived, looking so different from Ryou it seemed impossible that anyone could confuse the two. The building was glowing with honeyed light that shone through the multitude of windows, and Bakura was the only thing it didn't soften. 

When Malik approached him, Bakura just looked his visitor up and down. “Something's wrong.”

“Great job, Sherlock.”

“Don't get an attitude with me, not after you sent me packing and then brought me out here at this hour.”

Malik frowned at him but Bakura just had that same smug look he always did. “Whatever.” He grumbled, and the spirit was all too glad about his victory. “How did Ryou even let you back in control?”

It was Bakura’s turn to be irritated now, the mere mention of Ryou made his mood much less mirthful. “I asked nicely.” Something else snarky was on the tip of his tongue, but it dissolved when he caught sight of Malik’s arm. “You're bleeding.”

Malik glanced at the cut, which now dried dark and shallow on his skin. “Well no, not anymore. That happened on the way over here.” Bakura stared another moment longer, and Malik saw an uncomfortable shift in his throat even in the fading light. He tried not to dwell on it. “It’s fine, let’s go.”

“After you.” Bakura donned his smirk again, and Malik could finally exhale at seeing the subject and that strange reaction pass. Malik climbed onto the bike and didn’t bother to offer the helmet this time, and silently Bakura took his place behind him. The engine rumbled beneath them, and Malik had to stop himself from biting his tongue before setting off into the lights of the city.


	6. The River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was on hiatus for a minute but I'm back with an update! Anyway, gore warning. Jsyk.

“You know, from how urgent you sounded, this isn’t what I expected our first stop to be.” 

Malik pretended he didn’t hear that, instead opting to stare at his half eaten pack of sour punch straws he had gotten from a candy stall. Bakura had gotten a kebab from a vendor a few paces over and the smell of roasted meat was fanning waves of disgust over Malik, and he while he didn’t really like sugary things he hoped the flavor would counteract it, but it just added a conflicting layer to the scent that stuck at the roof of his mouth. “Either eat that or get rid of it, okay?”

Bakura groaned, tilting his back with it only to be even more obnoxious. “I knew it. You’re one of those preachy vegetarians that are on Ryou’s forums. I’m disappointed, shocked _and_ disappointed, Ishtar.”

“No, the only meat I ate for the first fourteen years of my life was salted jerky. Tasted like sweaty leather and it ruined meat for me.” a pause, then Bakura’s mouth opened to say something, and he had that mischievous look. “Don’t crack a joke about that.”

Bakura couldn’t stop smiling, even as he gnawed the rest of the meat away in a few ravenous bites. Malik just stuck another sour punch straw in his mouth and took a deep breath through his nose as the smell finally faded. At least Bakura was eating, he wouldn’t be pushing his body to the brink.

“I'm surprised you even know what any of that is.” Bakura said offhandedly as he tossed the empty kebab stick over his shoulder, where it clattered against someone's decrepit motorbike.

“I have a computer, it's pretty much inescapable.” 

Bakura's eyes lit up at that, and for Malik it was surprising and almost a little off-putting with its unusual sincerity. “Now that is an invention I appreciate. It can do anything.”  
Malik sort of got a kick out of that statement. It was almost childlike in its surety and wonder. “Anything huh?”

“Don't give me that look, I know you think it's just as amazing. You can just click a button and get food, clothes, games, anything you want delivered in less than a week. Boom.” Bakura plucked a straw from Malik's hand. “Why do you even leave your houses?”

Malik flicked the sugar crystals left on his fingers in his direction, and Bakura dusted them off his chest with a put out look. “Because you get bored. You should know all about that. If the Internet is so great why didn't you stay in Japan messing with it?”

Bakura crammed the straw in his mouth. “Too easy.”

Malik just blinked at him. 

“Got something to say, blondie?” Bakura snarked, and Malik just responded by tossing the packet of straws at him which Bakura caught against his shallow chest. He watched Malik cross to his bike and begin warming it up for another ride, and Bakura looked down at the candy in his hands and then back up at Malik, who wasn't paying attention to him. He was acting odd, he hadn't bothered to clean his cut or cover it with anything. It hadn’t even been bleeding when Malik had picked him up, but it still made Bakura’s skin itch. He had seen much more gruesome scenes, had been the cause of them on dozens of occasions, but this felt wrong. Malik didn't show weakness, that facade of godliness was still etched into his habits, his movements, and a God never lets mortals gaze upon his blood. Then again, Bakura was far from mortal. He quickly devoured another straw. Now that was assuming too much. Malik didn't see Bakura as much more than an inconvenience, and Bakura definitely saw him as mere entertainment, and besides the fact that they were some of the only people who could match levels with each other, it didn't make their bond friendly in any way. Malik wouldn't even admit vulnerability to himself, much less another person, even when Bakura had seen him knocked off his pedestal it had been unwillingly. 

“C'mon.” Malik broke him from his reverie and Bakura let the remaining candies tumble from his hand onto the ground before once more taking a seat behind him. Malik pretended he didn't see that in his mirror, but really it was so childish that he once more considered taking a hard turn just so Bakura would go flying. Then again, where would that leave him? Or more importantly, Ryou, who likely didn't appreciate what was happening here? That thought almost made him consider dropping Bakura back off at the hotel. Almost.

Instead he found himself driving in the opposite direction towards the Nile. It looked black in the night, as still and flat as glass. Some boats with blinking lights and faint, deep throated music glided by, their motors whirring and churning the water behind them in lethargic ripples that faded as quickly as they came. Malik took the bike down as far as he could before locking it up and descending the stairs to the canal, Bakura following him almost hesitantly and waiting for an explanation that wasn't provided. The canal was low, and one could easily dip their fingers into the waters if the feeling possessed them. Malik instead opted to lean on the railing, staring out to the other piece of the city which resided on an island that glistened and shivered almost as much as its reflection. Bakura took unsure steps until he was beside him, and he crouched down and looked into the river, which yielded nothing. He went to reach into it, but Malik’s voice stopped him.

“Don't. It's polluted.”

Bakura looked up at him, but Malik hadn't turned his head when he spoke and instead stayed focused on the lights. Bakura slowly stood up and rested both hands on the railing, which was freezing cold under his touch. “Of course it's polluted.” He spat.

Malik raised an eyebrow. “You seem surprised.”

“Everything is polluted now, or is on the verge.”

“That's not something I thought you really cared about, considering you left your garbage in the street."

Bakura frowned and looked away from him, focusing on his stolen hands instead, how they were unrecognizable to him at times. “Doesn't that get swept up?”

"Yeah, and dumped back here."

"...Disgusting."

Malik nodded, and his voice would've been bitter if it hadn't been deep in thought. “This river was the source of this land’s power. We repay it with poison.”

“How quickly people forget.” Bakura managed a wry smile, but Malik didn't even notice. “Come on Ishtar. You weren't even there to see it when it was actually worth looking at, don't act so nostalgic.”

Malik shrugged, leaning further forward on his arms. “I could have been, in some other life, it would explain some things.”

Bakura just laughed, and that got Malik to finally straighten his back, tear his eyes away from the skyline, and look at him, with some mild irritation at that, his default when Bakura was involved. He held onto the railing and leaned back, locking eyes with Malik who had to turn his back to the Nile to maintain the gaze. “I don't think so. I would remember someone as whiny and annoying as you.” 

Malik spoke with a logical tone, but truly he was grasping at straws. “Well Yugi is the Pharaoh’s reincarnation. Ryou is yours. It only makes sense.”

“Like I said, I would remember.”

“Maybe we never met.”

“Also doubtful. I knew a lot of people, and any past self of yours wouldn't exactly have been quiet and orderly.” That actually got a small smile from Malik, one without annoyance, and Bakura gave a satisfied shrug and looked back out on the river. “I'm just saying.”

“That's a good point.” Malik hadn't looked away from him right away, but for the first time the low light didn't make Bakura look as inhuman as he was. He could've been a normal person at first glance, but was really eternity wrapped in curses and flesh. Malik knew the feeling, or rather he longed to know it. His eyes averted to his bike that was just barely visible from the street above them. “...Isis wants me to work with her at the museum.”

Bakura stilled. Malik's words were personal and nearly hushed, it was unlike him in every way. They hadn't planned to confide in one another, not really, it wasn't something Bakura was sure he wanted to be a part of. Malik was a familiar face in a city that was now unrecognizable, someone who rivaled his own selfishness and ruthlessness without a fraction of the time he had been given, that was the extent of their connection, that was what he had told himself mere minutes ago when Malik had swept him from his room. Malik really must not have had anyone else to talk to, a concept that had been so easy to turn in his favor when it came to his host but remained abstract and hard to grasp with the person next to him.

Malik took a deep breath before he continued, and every muscle in his throat wanted his words to dissolve before they could be voiced. Bakura wasn't even responding, there was no reason for him to continue but still he carried on. “A few months ago I was a god card away from immortality. I was going to be the Pharaoh of the new world. Now Isis wants me to file paperwork. I never made a plan for a mortal life, much less an ordinary one. I don't know how to proceed.” More silence, it was harsher on his senses than Bakura’s strident laugh. “Even aging. I look different from Battle City already, and it'll just keep going until I'm old, and then I'll die and no one will remember me. I have a set amount of days left, and even fewer when I'm vital. Thirty years, give or take, then my body will start breaking down and preparing for when it can no longer sustain itself. I'm going to miss so, so much of history, of time, I've missed enough for one life.” His hands clenched tighter around the railing. “But I'm supposed to be fine with it. I'm just supposed to let it happen. I've never just let anything happen to me, not since…” it wouldn't allow itself to be verbalized. He had told too many about the ritual, none of whom deserved to have that knowledge. He had bared his scars to their prying eyes at the command of the man he vowed to forgive, but his hatred flared in his chest again at the memory of that humiliation. It wasn't for anyone else to know anymore, even if Bakura hadn’t been an enemy of the Pharaoh he would still hold that knowledge tightly against his chest. 

Malik realized how quiet he had become. He looked back over to Bakura, who was standing silently next to him. He felt raw, skinned and left for the air to burn the flesh beneath, and Bakura was for once an enigma instead of open and wild. There was something waiting to be said, Malik didn't know what outcome would be worse, only that he should've never opened his mouth, never should've even brought Bakura back to him. 

The spirit shook his head and looked away to the river. His eyes were dark, almost weary, or maybe it was a trick of the light. “You don't want it.” 

“What?”

“You don't want to live forever. I know it's not what you want to hear.” The water below him seemed anemic now, strained of its myths until it was shallow and empty. Whatever mysteries and treasures it held had been snatched from the waves, and even the once fertile soil was pale like a corpse and loosened by debris leftover by modern life. Broken bottles, rusted scrap metal, plastic bags and soda can rings all stared up at him. 

“You’re right...It’s not.” Malik’s eyes settled on the sky, stars and red-lighted airplanes and mindlessly swirling satellites. His chest felt leaden and sick, and he wished to be angry and lash out and make Bakura tell him the answer he desired, but no rage came to revitalize him. To burn again, to be the man he forged into shape, to have a sense of self he had complete control over, it was farther away than ever. He had been consumed rather than purified, and now he was charred and brittle, and the thought made his throat tighten, but perhaps beneath the ash he had been merely human all along. 

Bakura crouched down again and plunged his arm up to the elbow below the surface, and the current felt slick and thin between his fingers. No pulse of life, the heartbeat of the land was stuttering in this world. He didn’t long for the days of old, for those held nothing more than scar tissue and deadly mistakes, but the appreciation of existence, of being, something flickered for that within him. The modern world had no patience for Gods and prophets and the uncanny, and it explained away everything until there was nothing left. Malik was trying to recall a time he could comprehend but never be able to grasp the same way Bakura did. The feeling of a wound can be explained to the most minute detail, but nothing will compare to actually feeling it gaping from your body, and the same applied to memories. Malik remembered ghosts and impressions left in the sand by the old Kings, remembered a world he was built for but never given, and Bakura had seen that world to its end and even farther, had been stretched over time and darkness until meaning was relative and everything was disposable. That was the crux of eternal life, that was what Malik couldn't understand as long as he had anything to lose.

“What are you doing?” Malik asked, and Bakura nearly hit his head on the railing when he looked back up.

“...Nothing.” He withdrew his arm from the water, and it was blueish from the chill. It didn’t seem to even register to him. “You’re right. It’s filthy.”

“I wasn’t joking. People get sick from drinking it.” Malik sighed, and he tapped an uneven rhythm onto the railing before pushing off it completely. “I’ll take you back to Le Riad.” Bakura stood up straight and cocked his head at him for a moment, but a smirk appeared on his face and he wiped his sopping hand on Malik's chest, who flinched from the cold and smacked his hand away. "What the hell!?"

“That’s for earlier.” Bakura sneered. "And besides, I don't remember saying I wanted to go back."

"That's gonna sta- oh." Malik had been looking down at the dark handprint that was soaking into his shirt and he held it away from his skin, but Bakura’s words made him look up, his jaw locking in the rest of his complaint. He had to stop himself from saying “really?” like some kind of naive schoolboy. He wasn’t _that_ grateful, Bakura’s position could’ve been filled by anyone, but that self assurance was anything but effective, so instead he pushed it to the back of his mind. “Alright then. Suit yourself.”

Was he really trying to play off all of that? It seemed so. Bakura didn't have to be merciful, he could've taken that scratch of insecurity and tore it into a gash, it had been effective on several other occasions, but on this one he allowed it to roll off his shoulders. "Let's get out of here." 

Malik didn't have to mull it over and he immediately set out for the stairs, Bakura catching up at his side. He casted a glance back at the Nile, which from a distance was the glassy plane it had first appeared to be, flat enough to walk on, had that been possible. One lonely sailboat cut down the river northward. He looked back forward with a quiet resoluteness. It seemed that Malik’s act was wearing thin, even for himself. There was no higher purpose for him to cling to anymore but to play a subservient role to a dead man, the role he had been trying to do away with for as long as Bakura had known him. He couldn’t figure out what Malik saw in him that made him crave immortality so ardently, a spirit with only one purpose that he swiped at with haphazard hands. It was hardly something to envy, and to Bakura it just seemed like another arbitrary fact. The sun rose and fell, the tides came in, and he was going to live forever. Simple. He looked over to his former partner, who despite what just transpired looked almost at ease, or as close as Malik could get to it.

Before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by a familiar engine growling above them, and Malik stopped in his tracks for all of one second, just long enough for Bakura to see the blood drain from his face before he bolted up the stairs to the street. Malik nearly tripped when he got to the top, for the wheel lock he used on his bike had been snapped off with a pair of boltcutters and tossed onto the sidewalk. His eyes shot up from the useless bars to the metal screeching from the street, where his bike wailed from the person atop it, a man his age wearing sunglasses and a brown leather jacket, pushing the clutch only halfway so the gears ground against each other like nails on a chalkboard as he did doughnuts in the middle of the road. Malik felt his mouth go dry as he saw the skidmarks forming on the concrete, and when the bike stopped to face him smoke retched from the tires and engine. In these few minutes this stranger had stressed the machinery more than Malik had been able to do in years.

The man laughed and smacked the handlebar. “Yours?” he shouted over the screeching engine. Malik’s hand instinctively went to his belt, but there was only cloth there instead of the tremoring authority of the rod waiting to be used. Powerless. He took another step forward but the man revved the engine, and it gave a metallic shriek that kept him from moving any closer. 

“Nice ride, mind if I take it for a spin?” He laughed again and Malik felt as though his skin had crawled off his bones. If that bastard drove off it wasn’t like he could tell the police, not with his reputation, and what good would they do anyway? Write a report that would get lost under piles of other papers? 

Malik opened his mouth to speak, but before he could make a sound the bike squealed and tore down the street, it’s new rider making an obscene gesture with one hand before he passed the intersection and turned the corner, and the sound of the engine faded. At first Malik couldn’t move, but a second later his shoulders seized into panic, and his eyes went as wide as the headlights that were now illuminating someone else’s path. His breath came in short bursts as he tried to speak, but all attempts died on his lips. He didn’t even remember Bakura was there until he felt a hand on his shoulder, until the air around them shivered and danced like the heatwaves of a fire. There was a hum of power, and only then did he realize what was Bakura was doing.

“Wait-!” The ring blazed like a torch for a long second, then in the near distance there was the sound of a splintering crash, then a beat of sickening silence before a woman screamed, and the dumbfounded chatter of a gathering crowd began. Malik’s shoulders went slack, and Bakura smirked triumphantly at his quick thinking. 

“You’re welcome.”

But then Malik turned to look at him, and his expression was one of complete shock, of dread, like he had never seen him before in his life. Bakura’s victorious attitude crashed to the ground. Confusion replaced it, and he searched Malik’s face for an explanation but none came. Malik took a slow step away from him, and then turned and took off down the street without so much as a backward glance. As he got closer he saw a trail of red paint flecks, chrome streaks, and blood right at the corner, one that thickened as he drew closer to the crowd that had gathered. They were standing all around except for the smear, a nauseating red carpet that Malik almost walked upon before he thought better of it and pushed through the onlookers instead. When he got to the forefront, the sight that greeted him was his bike on its side, one leg still thrown over it, and the man’s head was against the curb, smashed open like a fruit and spilling its red contents into the gutter. Out of the corner of his eye Malik saw a young girl being rushed away by her father, the girl who screamed, and there was blood splattered on her shoes. The bike’s wheels had stopped spinning, and more smoke hissed from the vehicle while someone shouted that they were calling the paramedics. 

Bakura must have stopped his heart, or boiled his brain, or any multitude of things, each possibility more gruesome than the last. The people was looking at him now, some murmuring about whether he knew the man who was now motionless in the gutter. He turned and gazed through the part in the crowd, where he could see Bakura standing at the corner. Bakura looked at him like he needed a word-for-word explanation, showing impatience and confusion and maybe even a tinge of hurt, but Malik didn’t even want to consider that. He wanted to scream, to grab the spirit by the throat and hold him under the surface of that disgusting river until he stopped moving, and the thought alone made his nerves flare with fear. He wasn’t supposed to be having those urges anymore, he wasn’t supposed to be hurting or killing people. The idle, intrusive thought was one thing, but the tension and pain in his muscles from having to hold himself back from doing it was another. He killed a man, after everything he had aspired to do, every promise he made to himself or his family, a man now lay dead because he couldn’t control himself, because he sought out the shadows this time instead of being found by them.

Bakura held his gaze for one long, lingering moment before he turned around the corner and strode out of sight. The second he was gone flashing blue lights hailed an approaching ambulance.

 

-

 

Malik told the police how the man stole his bike and crashed it on the getaway. It wasn’t exactly a lie, and that was something he could definitely do without at this point. All he really had to do was show them the registration papers and ID copy he kept in the seat compartment, and after the body was removed from the scene and the majority of the blood wiped off the motorcycle once the standard investigation was over, they let him go. It had taken a good two hours, two hours of waiting and trying not to look at the carnage. 

When Malik turned the corner he didn’t see Bakura, and he hadn’t expected or wanted to. The ride home was a feast of overstimulation, too much light and scrambling noise all fighting against each other for priority over his exhausted senses, and he bristled at every living thing that came near him from other drivers to old men selling newspapers. The bike stuttered and coughed from the abuse of the night, and he had to fight an outflow of much more carefree people leaving the garage. He parked in his usual spot, and he looked back at his bike to see how it was no longer the cherry-red prize of the trio of vehicles, but derelict, scratched of its paint on one side and now leaking oil in slow drips. Bakura’s threats of tiny key scars were rendered absurd. The clock in the elevator read 1:33 in digitalized green, and Malik hoped against hope that his siblings had gone to bed so he wouldn’t have to face them, but when he entered the apartment he was greeted by the both of them standing in the living room, the TV blaring but only for a moment before Isis turned it off and tossed the remote onto the couch.

“Malik.” They both said, and they stopped short and looked at each other before Rishid continued. Malik wished that it had been Isis instead, she was easier to ignore. “We saw the accident on the news. That was your motorcycle.”

“Some guy stole my bike and crashed it.” He said, giving a shrug that was supposed appear nonchalant but wasn’t fooling anybody. “That’s it really.”

Rishid wasn’t trying to be patronizing, Malik could tell that much, but it still came off that way. “We thought it was you.”

“Well it wasn’t, obviously. I’m fine.”

“We were worried out of our minds.” Isis said, unable to be silent anymore. “They said there was massive cranial trauma.”

“There was. He died instantly.”

“Oh Ra, are you alright?”

“I just said I was fine, didn’t I?”

“Did you see it?”

“Yes.”

Isis and Rishid shared a look again, and Malik saw the wariness in Isis’ eyes. He almost could’ve laughed, Apparently they were worried that he might’ve been killed, but not enough to trust that it hadn’t set something off in him, not enough to even go to the police station or the hospital either. It was like they had gone back in time, that distrustful set of Isis’ jaw was something he saw every occasion they crossed paths on his quest to steal Ra and Osiris, it was nice to know how she really felt about him, and of course tonight had to be it. “What, afraid I’ll snap again?” 

“What? We didn’t say- don’t joke about that.” Isis didn’t quite yell at him, she never did, but her voice rose ever so slightly, and her delivery was stuttering for the first time he’d heard in a long while. 

“I’m not joking.” Now wasn’t the time to start a fight, but after the mistakes of the night they were the last people he wanted to talk to, and yet they kept dragging it on, and insulting him no less. It was the last thing he needed, but his anger had found its outlet. “Every time I’m around you act like it’s not even me. I have to prove who I am before we can even pretend to have a normal conversation.”

“Malik.”

“Rishid, not now.” 

“Malik…”

“I’m talking to Isis.” She was caught, but refusing to incriminate herself further, or maybe she just didn’t want to admit he was right, it wouldn’t be the first time. Still he pressed on, working himself up further the more he talked. “I mean, if you were going to treat me like this, why did you even try to keep me alive before? You clearly don’t trust me, everything I do either puts you on edge or makes you angry, we can’t even disagree without you acting like I’m going to get a knife and butcher you in your sleep-”

“Malik!”

“Rishid! I’ll fucking let you talk when I want you to be heard!” The second those words left his mouth he froze, and he realized how he was standing, the snarl that had formed on his face. That was a tone he hadn’t meant to use ever again. It was one that preceded a bludgeon with the rod, a command to drive a knife through someone’s cheek, a response to a well-meant suggestion. It was not only an order, but a threat. Rishid flinched on instinct and Malik felt a tremor go through his legs. He hadn’t wanted to, it wasn’t what he meant, but the betrayal was already written on Rishid’s face right alongside his scars. He only looked away from him when a small noise came from Isis, and he looked and saw how her eyes had become glassy. Nile water. She was trying not to cry, and she was doing a good job, her tears weren’t falling and her posture was as upright as ever. The moment passed, and she was in control again. 

Malik didn’t say anything to either of them, and he took a wide arc around them so he wouldn’t get too close. He knew they would just feel more afraid. Rishid might have tried to speak, but he had already closed his door and locked it. For a long pause he just stood there when all he wanted to do was fold over and sink to the floor. He couldn’t tell them that he had been the cause of it, that if he hadn’t gone back on everything they had tried to build together that a man would still be alive. Murder had been a business for him not too long ago, all of that torture and suffering either meant nothing to him or, on a few hazy occasions, been ecstasy. It would cross his mind even now, not even in a way that he felt guilty over, but he never acted on it or had anyone else act on it for him. Bakura had no restraint, human life meant nothing, he had been waiting for thanks after the crash. But worst of all, Malik had almost given it to him.


	7. The Museum

“What did you do?”

Bakura ignored the pointed voice in his head as he walked, hands in his pockets and the ring hot against his chest. It was just bearable, any warmer and he would've ripped it off and left it any multitude of places like he had considered on a handful of occasions, but it was no use, it always found its way back, such was its nature. 

“Answer me.”

“Shut up.”

“I can take the body back you know.” Bakura bit the inside of his cheek at that. Even if he put up a fight Ryou would likely win control in the end, and the last thing he wanted at this point was to be trapped in his soul room with a head full of raging thoughts. Almost mechanically he started walking away from the Nile strip, finding his way back to their room couldn't have been difficult. Maybe he would try sleeping for a change, a total blanking of his mind sounded appealing, and Ryou shouldn't have been the only one to enjoy such a luxury. If only he remembered how to do it in a way that wasn't passing out wherever was convenient.

Inside the ring, Ryou waited in his soul room, his eyes seeing fleeting impressions of what Bakura saw. It was like a movie where the film was water damaged, colors running into each other, outlines fuzzy, details lost, but the impression remained. Still he had learned to decipher the images to at least be able to tell familiar things apart from others, like his friends from strangers and his own home from the hundreds of other apartment complexes. Bakura was going away from the river, he could just barely feel the cold air from the water dying away. “When we get back, you're explaining yourself.” Bakura just ignored him again.

They did arrive almost an hour later, the faraway notes of a string instrument greeting them as well as a warm amber and white foyer. It really was a nice place, no wonder his father liked it, coming here after a long day of digging and arguing in the blazing sun must have been soothing. The second they closed their door Bakura’s confusion turned to seething anger, and Ryou sighed as his fist hit the closed door behind them, not breaking anything but making a flash of sharp discomfort go through Ryou’s arm, which meant that his physical one was trembling with pain. “What happened?”

Bakura was quiet at first, but a venomous laugh slithered from his throat. “I did your little friend a favor, one he didn't quite appreciate.” He was storming forward now and looking for something else to hurt, but really he was weak enough in this form that anything he did would harm him more in the long run. Ryou held on tightly to a corner of his mind and he couldn't quite be shaken away, like a tick or a mosquito, only he was the host and Bakura was the parasite.

“But what did you do exactly?” Ryou wanted to take over, but it was easier for Bakura to shut him out when he was inside the ring, so for now he let it slide. A gust came from the open window of his soul room, but it was only ever clouded and flat beyond the sill. The ring couldn't make a whole new environment for him, much less one with an inside and outside, but still the illusion of sun-warmed wind would find its way into his room. He liked it much better than the stagnant suffocation of Bakura’s domain anyway. His felt like fresh air, real or imaginary, hadn't been there in years. That was as much as he could tell from the keyhole anyway, it was usually covered by something dark and silky looking.

Bakura laughed again. “Like I said, a favor.”

Ryou’s fingernails dug into the heels of his hands. “Who did you hurt?”

“No one you know, don't start getting worked up.” Bakura flopped on the bed, plush with intricate sheets. The ceiling he stared at was a dark violet and had a crystal chandelier hanging from it, and he saw his face splintered and reflected alongside the deep tones of the room until no coherent visage was visible. If he hadn’t needed to stay somewhat inconspicuous he would’ve pocketed a jewel or two, just to make his host twitch, or to dangle in front of Malik’s treasure-lusty eyes. But there would have been no point to that, he likely had more than enough shiny stones, and he would only see Bakura with even more contempt. The thought felt like acid dripping down his windpipe.

Ryou didn't like how relieved that statement alone made him, but he still wasn't letting the spirit off the hook, and to get him to talk more he had to keep pressing where it hurt, much like the bruises he had been given. “So you killed someone and Malik didn't appreciate it. That's honestly surprising.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.” Bakura snapped, and he sounded more defensive than he liked. 

Ryou furrows his brow, Bakura didn't usually stand up for anyone but himself, even in the face of Osiris he was more concerned about not having a body to use than Ryou’s actual well being. The host shook his head. “When will you realize that maiming people isn't going to make them appreciate you?”

Bakura rolled onto his stomach and stared at the hand carved headboard, reaching out and picking at the wood just to give his fingers something to do, it was better than reading into his own mood too much. “I don't care about being appreciated, I care about being insulted, and he insulted me.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. That's the problem.”

Ryou almost laughed, and the lilt in his voice didn’t go unnoticed by the spirit. “Most people don't take kindly to you bringing in kills for them like a stray cat. I know I didn't.”  
“I had a good reason!” Bakura actually spoke aloud that time rather than through their mental connection, it almost made him cringe at how loud it was. He wasn’t in any sort of mood to settle a complaining neighbor. “This person was trying to steal that goddamn stupid ugly motorcycle of his and I stopped him. So he died, who cares? He was taking something important and I decided to be helpful. Last time I try that…”

“Why couldn't you just pop the tire or something?”

“And hear him whine about that? I don't think so.”

He could practically see Ryou’s annoyed look. “...What is your logic here?”

“Shut up. It doesn’t matter anyway, he won’t see me.” A piece of wood chipped under his nail and stung. “Oh well. So much for that. Maybe I should just haul your bones back to Domino after all.”

Bakura sounded unusually flat, which meant he was trying his hardest to be that way, even though Ryou could sense the poisonous feeling in their stomach. When Ryou had protested the souls trapped in his figurines Bakura’s reaction had been unsympathetic and annoyedly confused, but this time it at least appeared that he was remorseful, maybe not of the action itself but of the distress it caused. Bakura feeling regret. Feeling sorry. It was almost unfathomable, he wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t seeing it, experiencing it prick across their nerves when Bakura recollected the event. Maybe these newfound tinges of humanity were something he could foster. The possibility of a cooperative spirit was all too appealing, it could bring the seemingly endless of cycle of exhaustion and aching to a close, or at least stop the numb buzz in his skull he had grown accustomed to in this half-life Bakura tricked him into time and time again. He had to tread with caution, Bakura was like an animal caught in a trap, if he aggravated him in his attempt to spring him it could result in nothing but snarling and snapping.

“You could always apologize.” He said carefully, and wasn’t surprised when Bakura answered with a mocking bark of laughter.

“Why should I? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s not what an apology is about. It’s about admitting you hurt someone.”

Bakura snorted and sat up on the side of the bed, staring at a portrait copy of some important person or another as if that was who he was holding a conversation with. “This isn’t like your group of friends. We’re not going to hold hands and draw out our feelings. Oh wait, you weren’t a part of that, were you?”

He was trying to deflect, his favorite tactic that Ryou had already learned to ignore. “I never said to do that. Just...I don’t know...show rather than tell? That seems more like him.”  
“I don’t want your advice.”

“You want to stop feeling guilty, don’t you?” A year ago maybe Ryou would have felt a pang of some negative sensation or another for that statement and it’s manipulative undertones, before the nerves in his arm were nearly severed and white hot metal was driven into his ribs. But now the spirit loathed and needed him and the feeling was mutual. Ryou barely had the opportunity to feel anything anymore, much less emotions, was it so terrible then?

Bakura didn’t answer right away, he hadn’t exactly realized that it was in fact guilt weighing down his veins until that moment. Being detached from human sentiment for centuries made such a concept hard to grasp. Nothing like guilt or remorse had even entered his peripheral for as long as his gapped memory stretched back. It wasn’t new or interesting either, only distracting and troublesome. “...Yeah.”

“You should give him something he wants then, a peace offering.”

“We don’t have anything he would want.”

“...Maybe not anything material.”

 

-

 

The next day’s sun was high and intense, the whole of Cairo overexposed and fraying at the nerves from the heat. It was like every crack and fracture was visible in the plaster and concrete, and the skyscrapers of steel and glass were near blinding at high noon. Malik was elbow deep in the guts of his motorcycle, casing and parts all around in organized piles. He had waited until Isis and Rishid left before he even dared to leave his room, the sleepless night he had didn’t encourage him to apologize, and even if he did it wouldn’t matter, they would still act as though his other personality was lurking beneath every gesture. Rather than think about that he just reached over and turned the up the volume on the radio he had brought, the song something catchy from some flash in the pan pop singer from France. It helped drown out the traffic below as well, which was peaking for the late afternoon and full of impatient, overheated, angry drivers. The metal of the bike even threatened to burn his fingers through his gloves from being left out in the sun for hours. The smog was especially thick as well, nothing he wasn’t used to but still visible from this height as it clung heavy and acrid over the city. 

Most of the damage from the accident had been cosmetic fortunately, the paint, chrome, and some body dents that didn’t really affect the performance. What the thief had done beforehand however, was unto itself. The drive belt was ragged, the gearbox was out of alignment and chipped all over from grinding, and the throttle cable was shot. He had plenty of gears to spare, but the belt and cable would have to be purchased, maybe later that day if he could work through the gearbox in a timely manner. With that resolution he selected a smaller wrench from his kit and started working at the numerous bolts that locked it in, and he had set the first three down neatly beside him when he heard a noise.  
It had been accidental, the perpetrator having done their best to be quiet but failing on that step. Malik tensed but ignored it. He would take either of his siblings over who was undoubtedly only a few paces away. Right on cue he saw the worn white Nikes out of the corner of his eye, and he wrenched off the bolt he was working on a little harder than he should have. Minutes ticked by before the silence was broken.

“Hey.” Bakura’s voice was hoarse, like he had been yelling.

“What the hell do you want, Spirit.” It wasn't really a question the way he said it, but the chill in his words was completely expected.

Bakura didn't answer right away. Instead he drew closer with slow steps as if approaching a tiger. He peered over Malik’s shoulder into the motorcycle which leaned on its kickstand like a wounded gazelle with its stomach torn open. Malik’s gloves were stained with oil and axle grease, and traces had made their way up his forearms. Bakura could operate a computer or a phone with ease, modern technology did not faze him in the slightest, but the inner machinations of these devices eluded him. That Malik understood his vehicle enough to take it apart on his own was interesting. 

“You better have a good reason for coming around here again.”

Malik’s words snapped Bakura back into focus. He fished for the right thing to say, but in the end he could only speak the truth for the first time in far too long. “I don't understand why you're angry.”

The next bolt on the gearbox was wrenched off with more force than was necessary and Malik almost laughed, looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head for a moment, like a quick prayer to Thoth to give him patience, then went back to work. “Killing a man is something I should just let go, huh?”

“He was stealing your bike.”

“So were you, a few days ago. Does that mean you deserve your head split open?”

“You would think so if not for your new “honor code” or whatever.”

“Don't be stupid-”

“So you don’t want me dead?” 

Malik didn't answer. He didn't know. Hadn't he threatened to kill Bakura the first time they met? He had meant it then, people had been either pawns or obstacles, nothing more. He was supposed to be working on that. He opened up the gearbox and peered into the mess of worn and cracked pieces. “I guess not, technically speaking. I still want you to get the fuck away from me, and you can do that while being perfectly alive. Well, as alive as you can get.”

Bakura sighed deeply and took another step forward. Malik refused to look at him, denied him any sort of reaction he could run with, so Bakura quietly lowered himself to the ground beside him. Malik visibly bristled, but didn’t move away. “I’m...willing to make it up to you.”

“Make up a human life?”

“Stop acting like that meant anything at all, because we both know it didn’t. But this,” Bakura gestured at the motorcycle they were poised in front of like a cracked TV screen. “I know this means something.”

“That man is supposed to mean something.” Malik let the first ragged gear fall. “That's the problem.”

Bakura picked up the little toothed wheel and turned it in his palm, grease rubbing onto his skin. “You're guilty because you're...not guilty.”

Malik set the box down and sighed in a way only the weariest of old men did, the ones who saw too much in a never ending barrage. He rested his head in his hands and kept his eyes tightly shut. “Yes.”

Bakura turned the gear over again and ran his thumb along the edge. “I did it, not you.”

“Yes, but…” Malik opened his eyes and looked into the scratches of his bike as if they would reveal something. 

“But what?” Bakura pocketed the gear. It was warm from both of their hands.

Malik’s fingers drummed against the gearbox. He couldn't sit still for some reason, it took all of his will to stop his teeth from grinding and his jaw already hurt. “I was happy. You killing him for me, getting this back, risking being caught by the cops or my siblings or even my clan, I was grateful. I wanted to thank you. Thank you, for killing someone. What kind of-” without warning he hurled his wrench at a support pillar, and it glanced off hard enough to reverberate through the garage and lay in a clattering pile next to the concrete it chipped off. “-fucking monster does that? What the hell is wrong with me?!” He wanted the rod more than ever right now, just to hold and remember the power he once had over his life that was now tailspinning. “That man’s life? It doesn’t matter to me, and that’s what makes me sick. It should mean something just by being another living human being. I thought seeing the body would make it matter to me, and it didn’t. My siblings thinking I’m going to snap is worse than seeing all of that blood. So congrats, being around you for all of two days has destroyed whatever progress I made at being a halfway decent person. I’m sure you’re thrilled.”

For a long moment neither of them spoke. Malik didn't know what was worse, the deafening silence or whatever Bakura was turning over in his mind. The heat of the afternoon was starting to make Malik sweat. He picked up the gearbox again, but could only stare into it.

“Who the fuck cares?” Bakura only half scoffed, there was a deeper tone in his words that bled through his trademark nonchalance. “Are you honestly going to martyr yourself at every opportunity for the rest of your short, human life? Like you said, you have maybe thirty years before you're some decrepit old man, and you're going to spend it apologizing for being alive? Fuck that. If that's how you roll now, you're not who I thought you were.”

Malik looked back at him. Bakura’s eyes were dark, not with anger or sour intent, but something exposed in some way neither of them could decode. The pause was heavy in the air before Malik spoke. “And who do you think I am?”

Bakura looked back at the bike. His legs were starting to ache from crouching for so long. He’d waited longer in more uncomfortable positions while staking out countless temples and fortresses, but never in such a feeble shell. The ring was hot against his skin and he tugged at the cord. “You're Malik, to me.”

Not Malik Ishtar, not heir to the tombkeepers of the nameless Pharaoh, not the former Ghoul, murderous, deadly, reverent, split down the middle by trauma and hate. But he was no mere mortal, pathetic and grasping at power with hands that would be nothing but forgotten dust in the next century. He saw through that, even in a minute way, and Malik knew it from the way he said his name. No fear, no judgement, how long had it been since someone hadn't been afraid of him?

“So, you're apologizing to me?” Malik looked down to the gearbox, then straight ahead into the scratched chrome of the bike. Their reflections were warped, he couldn’t see Bakura’s expression. Malik’s chest hurt as his logic came back into focus. It had to be a honeypot, Bakura wanted something out of him, he always did, but it was alluring all the same now that Malik’s own family couldn’t stomach looking at him. It was a terrible decision, but he was truly alone now, and Bakura was the only person willing to change that, the only person who didn't flinch at his every move, and if it was all a front Malik could at least pretend otherwise for a few hours.

Bakura didn’t answer, so Malik pushed past it. “I know what you can do.”

 

-

 

The building they slowed down in front of was enormous and made of solid red stone with an arched white entrance, European design. It was the middle of the night, so of course the guards were patrolling the outside, but the lights were still on, so at least some administrators were left. 

“The museum.” Bakura’s voice was cold, void of mockery, Malik ignored the sick feeling it gave him.

“Yeah.”

“This isn't what I had in mind.”

“Humor me.” Malik parked the black jeep he rented in front of the entrance, and immediately two guards strode over to them and started talking. Bakura couldn't understand a word, but he heard Malik mention his sister. One guard barked another question and Malik got out, making Bakura follow suit so he could lift the seat and pull out some papers from the glove compartment. The guards looked it over carefully, and finally one nodded and Malik put it back, locking the seat and pocketing his keys before nudging Bakura’s arm. “Let's go.”

“No.”

“You wanted to make it up to me, this is what I want. Now come on.”

Bakura searched his face for any indication of a bluff or hesitation, but there was none, and he reluctantly followed him and his escorts inside. The museum was colossal, the main hall stretching far and open with side corridors leading into equally impressive exhibits. At the end of the hall was a gigantic statue of a Pharaoh and his queen, and Bakura shuddered. The last time he had seen that was in the dead of night in Luxor, they had loomed over him, intact and polished. The guards let them be and Malik cracked his knuckles on one hand as he walked.

“So what's the deal?” Bakura looked at a statue about his height beside them. Another Pharaoh, a son of the one that towered over them. Black granite, also in Luxor, part of a royal family plot of the holy city.

“Do you recognize any of this?” Malik asked. His eyes lingered on a sarcophagus, the lid ajar so one could see the engravings inside.

Bakura elected to tilt his head back and stare at the vaulted ceiling high above them rather than inspect any of the artifacts. “So what if I do?” 

“Tell me about them.”

“I already told you. I'm not here to bestow the oh so great wisdom of the ancients upon you.” Bakura’s fingernails were digging into the heels of his hands. “None of this means anything to me.”

“Then why are you so riled up?”

“Imagine if someone showed you some insignificant thing from today's world, like, I don't know, a magazine or a cheap bracelet or some ugly centerpiece for a dining room table, and wanted you to wax poetry about it. You can't. It doesn't matter.” Bakura snapped his head to look at him. Malik’s eyes were hard, and maybe even a little frustrated.   
Disappointed? He was as unreadable as ever. Bakura could've screamed, and it was worse because he entirely didn't know why, but that it had to do with Malik and his inability to understand. He should have just left things the way they were after the crash, but he knew he would've feeling much worse had that been the case. “This was, is, all garbage. It's background noise, something to hide behind at best or a blocked view at worst.”

“Some apology this is, you're not even trying.” Malik said shortly, and he took a few steps ahead to the large statue at the end. 

Bakura stared at his gold-clad neck. It would be easy to grab him by it and slam his skull into the stone feet of the Pharaohs he so wanted to be like. But for the first time the idea filled him with revulsion, even stronger than the frustration he felt as he turned that statement over and over in his head.

“What do you mean by that, exactly?”

“You take everything for granted. I'd make far better use of immortality.” Malik gazed up at Amenhotep III, the statue had been restored, but there were still scars in the rock that would always remain. 

“Is this the whole reason you brought me here?” Bakura hadn't thought about the question before voicing it, but by the newfound tension in Malik’s shoulders. “To force me to look at these useless hunks of rock and insult me because you're jealous?”

“When you put it like that it sounds pretty awful, doesn't it? Too bad you brought this on yourself.” It wasn’t even what Malik wanted to say, but it was the safest. Everything that came out of his mouth was worse than the last, but it was like someone was speaking through him. Maybe this was how the ghouls felt.

“Way to waste my time.” 

“You have plenty of it.”

“It's not that great you know, I don't think you could handle immortality.”

“Oh really?” Malik finally turned around and Bakura gave that Cheshire grin of his, even more spiteful than usual. Malik started walking down a side corridor, and Bakura followed only to stay in earshot. 

“Yeah, really. First of all, the only way I know you can become immortal is with these,” he tugged on the cord of the ring which hung out of sight under his shirt. “And then you need a host, and it can't be just anybody. I've waited for thousands of years in the ring before I emerged, and the puzzle works the same way. And let me just say that the soul rooms aren't particularly comfortable.” Malik didn't look at him again, instead he stopped by a display case. “Then you emerge and nothing you knew exists anymore, but what's more likely is that you don't remember what your life was like, or even your name or how you became what you are. I'm lucky, I've started remembering things, but for a long time I couldn't.” He glanced down at the case Malik was looking at, inside were pieces of relief sculptures, a Pharaoh smiting a Libyan army. That battle happened hundreds of years before he was born.

“Nothing of note, most likely.” Malik started walking again, further into the labyrinth until the artifacts on display became less and less ornate.

“Bingo.”

Malik scoffed under his breath. “Bingo…” few things around them now were solid gold or set with precious stones, instead it was mostly wood, clay, papyrus, oxidized metals. “Recognize anything?”

“Nice try, no. I should show you some random broken plate from a century before you were born and ask if it's yours. That's basically what you're doing.”

“Even if none of it belonged to you, you used things like them.” Malik pointed to a crumbled plow hooked up to fake wooden cows. “Like this, everyone but royalty used these at some time or another.”

“I didn't exactly have a traditional Kemet upbringing.” Bakura muttered. His skin itched and he scratched at his shoulder, wishing Ryou hadn't cut their nails. The stool on display next to his hip had crudely drawn crocodiles on the seat and legs. It must have belonged to a child long devoured by desert sand. “And no, I wasn't part of the nobility, don't insult me by asking.” 

“Come on...”

“Nothing of mine would be here. I can promise you th-” A small sign caught his eye, one so demure he might not have seen it if he hadn't been avoiding Malik’s eyes. It was written in Arabic with an English and what he guessed was French translation below it, but also another in hieroglyphs at the bottom. Wordlessly he followed the arrow pointing to an even smaller atrium, Malik was saying something but he couldn't hear, not when the whole world was shifting beneath his feet.

“Hey, where do you think you're going?” Malik made to go after him, but stopped to read the sign that sent the spirit off in a near trance. “The Treasures of Pharaoh Akhenamkhanen…” The father of the nameless Pharaoh, he remembered that from his hours of readings in the tomb. “Bakura?”

He was long gone. Malik followed the signs to catch up, and found himself in a darker corner of the museum. They led to a smaller exhibit that was possibly getting ready to begin a travel tour. The sign had told of treasures, but truly there wasn't much in the hall besides scrolls and pieces of deteriorated stone tablets. Some heavier valuables like thrones and guardian statues were left, but they had the ruby eyes gouged out of their faces. There was very little gold and silver and even less precious jewels, maybe one emerald ring glinted in the concentrated museum spotlights. Akhenamkhanen wasn't an obscure Pharaoh either, his accomplishments decorated countless stelas and obelisks, leaving only one option: grave robbers must have raided his resting place. The thought of it made Malik smirk, but only a moment before he remembered who he was supposed to be looking for.  
The exhibit had another, sub-exhibit within it for Akhenamkhanen’s brother, and this room was even dimmer and barely larger than Malik’s bedroom. It’s information panel did not begin with the glowing praise the more renowned sibling had, it was bare-boned and to the point, mostly telling of the attempted coup. It briefly mentioned the legend of the seven millennium items, and how he was the supposed creator, all things Malik already knew, but that didn't occupy him for long. Bakura was standing there, still as a corpse, at the barest corner of the room.

“Hey…” Malik said gingerly, a tone he couldn't remember the last time he used. He had never seen Bakura like this, so serious and grave. Upon further inspection Malik noticed he was trembling ever so slightly. “Bakura, what's going on?”

He followed Bakura’s eyes to the glass case he was standing in front of. The panel merely said “artifacts from the Kul Elna conflict.” Malik remembered that name well. The history books the modern world were given recounted it as a destroyed rebellion, but the Ishtar clan knew better. Kul Elna had been sacrificed to forge the items they now guarded, ninety-nine human souls were sealed into the gold, and those souls were further corrupted by the entity that nearly destroyed every land upon Geb. Malik had been taught that it was for the greater good, and that the village had been full of “undesirables, blasphemers, and thieves” as his father put it. It chilled him regardless. Inside the case were charred pieces of debris. A fire then, it was a wonder how there was even a village to dig up after thousands of years. There were pieces of a board game, senet? It was impossible to tell. Next to them was a stone tablet with an inventory of textiles written upon it, but the bottom half had been warped by flames and there were scatterings of pottery around it. The last item was a child’s sandal. It was bloodstained and chewed through by insects, but somehow still intact, perhaps sheltered from the elements in a ruin of some house after the family was struck down.

At first, Malik thought the smell of fire was his imagination running with the gruesome picture the artifacts painted, but when he saw a wisp of white smoke that was swiftly proven to not be the case. He whipped around to see Bakura, sunken-eyed and muttering to himself in half-formed Egyptian, with the millennium ring searing through his shirt. His hand was flat upon the item and Malik could smell flesh on the verge of burning. 

“Bakura, stop!” Malik snatched his hand away and felt blisters on his palm. Bakura didn't react, so Malik snapped the cord from around his neck and held the ring away from him at a distance. It was white hot, and if it wasn't cursed with death and agony it's molten body would have been dripping gold onto the marble floor. Bakura snapped out of it as soon as the ring was out of his reach, but only from the brink of a great precipice to a dissociated haze.

“No, no, don’t,” His voice was not his own, it sounded as ancient as time itself, but filled with terror, mortal and brimming with pain. “Give it to me. Now.”

“You're hurt, hold on.” Malik insisted. The ring began to fade back to its original color, still too hot to touch but not threatening to melt skin. “Follow me, the offices have first aid kits.”

“I'm not leaving. Not again. Not again. Not-”

“It's not going anywhere tonight, okay? Please, Bakura.” Malik put a hand on his shoulder before he thought better of it, and said it again in a softer tone. “Please.”

Bakura didn't resist when he led him away, and he was speaking Egyptian again. Malik couldn't decipher it with how unclear Bakura’s pronunciation was, a small-town dialect interjected with local patois and Malik had only learned its rigid, holy form. Only two offices were still occupied so Malik had no trouble finding bandages and cold packs, as well as chairs so that Bakura could rest while the shaking in his legs went away. Bakura’s shirt was burnt through, so Malik cut it away with the kit’s scissors.

“Hold this.” He placed a cold pack against Bakura’s bony, blistered chest, and the spirit held it weakly. Malik poured water he had gotten from the cooler onto Bakura’s hand, dampening his leg from the runoff, then applied the disinfectant. That seemed to bring some of Bakura’s old self back and he grimaced with the pain.

“Fuck…” he tried to jerk his arm away, but Malik held him fast.

“I know. It sucks.” 

Bakura watched Malik rub the disinfectant cream into his palm. His hands were so dark, Bakura remembered when his were even darker and he wanted them back now more than ever before. The raging thoughts, the rush of memories he had actually wanted to stay buried deep, now they left him grey and brittle and remembering all too much. He looked down at his chest and saw the red burns blooming over the old entrance wounds the ring had made. “Ryou’s gonna be pissed. His scars were almost healed.”

“Shit, I forgot about Ryou, damn it-”

He waved it away. “Not your fault.” Malik began wrapping the burn with bandages, Bakura stared at his concentrated face but Malik didn't even notice. He wanted to sleep and forget, but the ring was resting unceremoniously in the office sink so it wouldn't burn anything else, no way to switch with Ryou and let him do damage control. “That's on me.”

“If we hadn’t come here it wouldn’t have happened at all.” Malik was scolding himself in his mind, Bakura could practically see the swarm of self-loathing remarks punching holes in Malik’s steadfast being. It almost made him laugh, this made them even in a way. Malik wasn’t paying attention to anything but the burns. “I didn’t think about...I didn’t consider the possibility that you were from that village. You are from that village, aren’t you?”

“Kul Elna. Call it by its name.” If he didn’t, no one else would, clearly no one had in far too long. Bakura observed Malik’s careful hands, so alike to when he was working on his motorcycle, except Bakura’s machinery made less sense. There was no getting around the questions now, the answers to which he had bottled in nameless canopic jars until the day he eviscerated his enemy. It seemed those rancid organs within would be seeing light before then. “I haven’t seen it since that night, or anything from it. We weren’t traders, none of our goods left our village, we only took things in. Thieves.”

Malik remembered what his father said about the villagers and felt ill. “I didn’t know there were any survivors. They never mention any, not in my family’s scriptures.”

Bakura managed a hissing little laugh as Malik tied the bandage tight. “Oh yes, they do. I was the only one though. I had to be...let’s see…” He counted the fingers on one hand. “Eight harvests old?”

“Eight.” Malik looked back up at him and was surprised to see Bakura meeting his gaze, but he quickly looked away once Malik made eye contact. “Holy Ra.”

“What’s in that case there, I remember it. I don’t think any of it belonged to me but it’s all familiar.” He smiled and bitterly shook his head, lowering his eyes to the floor. “It's all coming back. Everything.”

Malik couldn't see past Bakura’s thick white hair, so he moved his chair closer. “Listen…” he was dying to know everything this ancient being could tell him, what incredible, terrible, things he had seen that were brought back to his memory. A number of questions rested on Malik’s tongue, ones he'd held onto since his shrouded childhood, but he voiced none of them. “You don't have to tell me a damn thing if you don't want to. Don’t feel obligated. I made you come here and see those things.”

Bakura looked back up and searched for any sort of indication that Malik was angry or lying, but there were none. His eyes were guarded but utterly sincere. He could have locked his jaw and made Malik forget about the whole thing, but he knew that wouldn’t be effective. More surprising than Malik’s sudden concern for his well being, as opposed to Ryou’s, was that the history reemerging in his mind’s eye was begging to be told to someone who deserved to know, rather than fallen, entitled kings and priests blinded by ignorance. Bakura felt his throat urging to close so he spoke quickly. “I need air.” 

“We can go back to the apartment.”

“No, clean air.”


	8. (Preview)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of the next chapter, to tide yall over before I finish.

The GPS had been offered, but Bakura refused it and instead opened the sunroof to see the night sky. The stars were murky with Cairo’s light pollution at first, but became more and more distinct as Malik drove them further out into the desert. After some twists and turns that made him uneasy, Bakura held his hand out in front of his eyes, slowly changing the configuration of his fingers three times before nodding. “An hour from here, just follow Osiris.”

Malik looked up to see the constellation in the sky with its distinct belt and broad shoulder line. He would never forget the wilderness that had first greeted him all those years ago, in a cruel way it felt more like home than Cairo’s busy streets and glass towers did, and winding through the sand dared to bring back the corridors of his youth. He flicked on the ceiling light at the mere thought, and was glad when Bakura said nothing of it. He hadn't said anything since the directions really, Malik had never seen him so quiet and wished he would speak, even a sarcastic quip or biting insult would have been welcomed, but he was not obliged. An hour came and went in silence until a shallow canyon appeared on the horizon. 

“Drive through it, you'll know when.” Bakura had been motionless for the most part until then. He leaned forward and scanned out the dusty windshield, and when that proved inefficient he rolled down the window and stuck his head out. With the wind pulling his hair from his face he looked more ghostly than ever, especially when the moonlight caught where the ring’s cord had rubbed his neck raw. He held it in his hand now, palm over the eye of Horus at its center. “A little to the right, there. Stop the car.”

The headlights showed a skeletal crop of buildings all stacked upon one another on the mountainside like a crooked pile of blocks. The dwellings were mainly carved from the rock, and what was mud brick had long crumbled to nothing. Malik shut the car off and suppressed the reflexive response to panic in the sudden darkness. Bakura was already ahead of him but stopped short at the threshold of the village. Many of the walls were still dull with ash, but pieces of glass and yellow tape marked where the archeologists had taken their fill, not that there was much to find. The excavation was recent enough to not have any set method of guarding the digging site, so they were utterly alone. Bakura had for a moment expected the spirits of the village to creep from the empty windows and cracked walls where they used to hide from the daylight, but remembered once again, with nails pressing into his hand, that they were gone too. He moved to take a step, then paused and removed his shoes so that his bare feet met the earth. The ground bent the same way, and he followed it expertly up into the belly of the village.


	9. The Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your nice comments guys, I know I don't respond to them but that's because I can Never think of anything to say omg but I really do appreciate it, even thought I deleted my ygo sideblog ages ago.

The GPS had been offered, but Bakura refused it and instead opened the sunroof to see the night sky. The stars were murky with Cairo’s light pollution at first, but became more and more distinct as Malik drove them further out into the desert. After some twists and turns that made him uneasy, Bakura held his hand out in front of his eyes, slowly changing the configuration of his fingers three times before nodding. “An hour from here, just follow Osiris.”

Malik looked up to see the constellation in the sky with its distinct belt and broad shoulder line. He would never forget the wilderness that had first greeted him all those years ago, in a cruel way it felt more like home than Cairo’s busy streets and glass towers did, and winding through the sand dared to bring back the corridors of his youth. He flicked on the ceiling light at the mere thought, and was glad when Bakura said nothing of it. He hadn't said anything since the directions really, Malik had never seen him so quiet and wished he would speak, even a sarcastic quip or biting insult would have been welcomed, but he was not obliged. An hour came and went in silence until a shallow canyon appeared on the horizon. 

“Drive through it, you'll know when.” Bakura had been motionless for the most part until then. He leaned forward and scanned out the dusty windshield, and when that proved inefficient he rolled down the window and stuck his head out. With the wind pulling his hair from his face he looked more ghostly than ever, especially when the moonlight caught where the ring’s cord had rubbed his neck raw. He held it in his hand now, palm over the eye of Horus at its center. “A little to the right, there. Stop the car.”

The headlights showed a skeletal crop of buildings all stacked upon one another on the mountainside like a crooked pile of blocks. The dwellings were mainly carved from the rock, and what was mud brick had long crumbled to nothing. Malik kept the car on so they could use it for light, but still wished they had a shred of daylight. Bakura was already ahead of him and slipping the ring over his head, but stopped in his tracks at the threshold of the village. Many of the walls were still dull with ash, but pieces of glass and yellow tape marked where the archeologists had taken their fill, not that there was much to find. The excavation was recent enough to not have any set method of guarding the digging site, so they were utterly alone. Bakura had for a moment expected the spirits of the village to creep from the empty windows and cracked walls where they used to hide from the daylight, but remembered once again, with nails pressing into his hand, that they were gone too. He moved to take a step, then paused and removed his shoes so that his bare feet met the earth. The ground bent the same way, and he followed it expertly up into the belly of the village. 

Malik followed Bakura’s suit and left his shoes next to the nikes he had just cleaned the day before. As soon as his skin rested in the dust a chill clawed through him, he could feel the ancient agony that had soaked into the very soil, poisoning the stone itself with atrocities and running deep below ground, perhaps into the earth’s core as a permanent gash. Still he forced himself to catch up with his companion, and found him in what had to be the village center. A gaping hole in the ground indicted where a well used to be, but beside that were craggy gouges in the earth from something heavy being anchored there. 

Bakura gestured almost flippantly at it. “That's where the furnace and smelter were. They showed up in the night, blocked off the village, and once it was set there they started rounding us up.” Malik didn't reply, Bakura didn't know why he paused to let him. “We were thieves, and not “real sons of Kemet” anyway because of our ancestors, and we had been a thorn in the dynasty’s side ever since we settled here and started targeting their trading routes to Tyre. It was stupid, we should have stayed nomadic but too many children had been born, me among them.”

Malik kneeled down. Despite the many times his sister lectured him about the dangers of getting oil and sweat from one’s hands on ancient artifacts and sites, he gently pressed the pads of his fingers against the gouges which were once significantly deeper, but now were just enough to be mistaken for a simple pothole, had this site been inhabited since the massacre. “You remember all that, even though you were eight?”

“I gathered the pieces I hadn’t been old enough to know later on.” Bakura looked away from Malik and instead focused on the stars and how they were dimmer than they used to be. Even the heavens shriveled and became grey in his absence, just like the Nile. Flat. Disposable. Tired. “Stories of soldiers spread for years after, but there’s no way it was a simple coincidence that none of them were written down.” He laughed at that, low and bitter. “Akhenamkhanen and his jealous snake of a brother saw to that I’m sure.”

Malik stood up. A piece of him wanted to make Bakura continue, but that selfish impulse was forced back like bile as he saw the column of Bakura’s throat stretched taut in the watery light from a clouded moon. Patches the color of bruised fruit rested towards the back of his neck near his shoulders, the result of the ring’s weight breaking the blood vessels. At first Malik wanted to pull it off of him again, right where Bakura tied back together after the museum, matching the other knots from however many times it had received the same treatment before. He thought of throwing it into the desert’s maw, but now knowing that whatever pieces of the souls that once resided in this place were left would have fragments within it, he almost wanted to tie it tighter, so Bakura wouldn’t lose the last shards of his people he clung to so desperately under that act of nonchalance and sarcasm he played so, so well. Malik had lost his family once, mere days had nearly drove him mad with grief, living, or rather half-living, with that pain for a thousand years, it was unthinkable. The Pharaoh his clan served did not deserve what little Bakura had left, yet he demanded and ordered and took and took and took even in death. 

Bakura looked down at his hands again and the laughter lost its strength on his lips. These hands were pale and cold just like everything else he had the displeasure of seeing through his landlord’s eyes, the reflection he saw of them every day reminding him that he was displaced, a stutter in time that had no home and no people to return to. He had nothing to lose, but also nothing to gain but endless death, always death. It was creeping upon him even now, blackness too dark to be night shadows slithering into his mind, his vision, bringing pain that grew with each pulse of his heart. The voices from memories so old they didn’t flow the way the ones he had accumulated in the modern world did, the ones he heard so vividly in the museum that had been echoing in his skull the entire ride here and each lead-heavy footstep up this damned canyon were strangled into silence, and before he could blink it was all gone. He looked around the village and it felt like a stranger, like he had read that brief and thoughtless exhibit card and decided to visit on a whim rather than come to what was left of home. 

“Fuck…” He tasted blood and realized he was biting his lip. “Fuck, no…” Malik was saying something he couldn’t hear, and the modernity of his voice, the language he spoke to him in not the one he should have been fluent in. He was running, the faint light from the car totally engulfed in the night so he was moving blind but still somehow hoping he’d see something that would bring it all back, but to no avail. He felt the stone and sand beneath his feet, but he was no longer attuned to its divots, and a chunk of rock caught him off guard and sent him sprawling. His shoulder collided with a wall of a house and he let himself slide against it to the ground, clutching the point of contact that was only a few inches above the scar from battle city. It hardly hurt, but it only added onto the bloody chunks torn out of his memory by the darkness, the sensation of clawed hands sinking into his psyche an all too familiar feeling. 

Footsteps sounded off a few yards away. Bakura turned his head away from the sound and didn’t move even when Malik managed to find him in the dark. “Don’t just take off like that.” He wasn’t quite scolding him, in fact Bakura thought he sounded nervous.

“It’s gone.” He choked on his words, hands becoming fists. The blood in his mouth wasn’t enough, he wanted to scream, strangle the life from something alive so it could for just one moment know the blackness that wanted to crawl up his throat and bring all it touched to ash. “All of it, fucking gone.”

Malik started to say something, but no words came. He was rigid where he stood like he was afraid to breathe. Malik, afraid? The darkness stirred at the telltale signs, and a voice without words urged him to make him more so, break flesh and see blood in that light hair, but he bit his lip again and buried it as well as he could. Countless times he had let the visions carry away the unbearable tension and guide his hands, leave all of his anger spilling out of someone else’s slit neck or punctured abdomen, but with the ring’s darkness moving him towards Malik the thought chilled him.  
“Let’s go.” Malik said, for once not giving an order, and Bakura let him offer his warm, mortal hand to help him up. He likely gripped a little harder than he should have, but considering the more painful tendencies he was holding back with every muscle, the tombkeeper should have considered himself lucky.

They trudged back down the village in silence, Bakura still casting his eyes this way and that to maybe find a piece of something that could trigger his memory again, but it was like he had been blindfolded and gagged and could only stumble after his companion like a useless puppet, hollow and clumsy. Malik led them back to the car and picked up both pairs of their shoes that Bakura had completely forgotten about in the past thirty minutes. When he looked back at Kul Elna through the rearview mirror he waited to feel something, but he only felt like he was choking on something again, not a sentence but a feeling that was held down and away from even his thoughts.

He tried to say “Necrophades” out loud, but it tasted like tar on his tongue and fizzled out before he could trap it between his teeth.

Malik placed Ryou’s shoes on the console and Bakura didn’t reach to take them. Malik looked straight ahead into the dusty road, and he took a breath that was barely on the edge of stable before he flicked on the ceiling light like he had before. Minutes ticked by with only the rumble of the engine and slight rattle of the air conditioner. The farther away they drove, the calmer Bakura became, but shrieking anger and confusion were replaced with a grey lethargy, and he wanted to let Ryou take control for a while but his host was unresponsive and he couldn’t tell if it was deliberate. Had the mortal been charred to nothing when night incarnate ripped his memories from him and blinded him with rage? That would be inconvenient, he would have to actually give the vessel its necessities instead of pushing them to the back of his mind for Ryou to deal with later.

“I’m sorry.”

Bakura almost wasn’t sure if he had heard Malik correctly, considering how he hadn’t looked away from the road or shifted in any way besides his hand gently guiding the steering wheel. Not only that, but Malik Ishtar, King to end all Kings, apologizing to a spirit suspended in half-life that couldn’t tell him anything that he wanted to hear anymore made no sense. He had nothing to gain, and that was the most perplexing aspect, Malik even after he tried to make amends with the world wasn’t truly empathetic, wasn’t compassionate, just playing at the concepts because it was what was expected of him now. As least, that’s what Bakura had thought he figured out.

“...It’s not your fault.”

“That’s not the point. You said that you had only been remembering things recently, and now it’s gone again, and I’m sorry.”

“Looks like you won’t get your primary source after all.” Bakura busied his hands by fumbling for the seat adjusters, anything to keep that few inches of space, physical and figurative, between them. He didn’t need those eyes taking in a face that wasn’t truly his, he didn’t know what would be found and he wasn’t prepared for the answer.

Malik gave a sigh, half-frustrated, half-exhausted. “I don’t care about that right now.”

“That was the entire point of this, me telling you about the past.”

“And you did, more than I thought you ever would.”

Silence clung to the air once more. Bakura found the adjusters and leaned back a bit, staring out the sunroof at the blur of stars. They seemed more vivid when they were blending together in a silvery mass. Osiris was the only constant at the edge of his vision, the god of the underworld refusing to let Bakura out of its sight lest he slip through time again. Where would that land him? Would he find the Pharaoh and Priest Set all over again, doomed to battle and forget and battle again until all of the sorcery expired and there was no killing field left to wound each other on? That thought almost amused him, but the next formed a vice around his pulse. Would he find Malik again?

“I remember the attack the most,” Bakura’s voice sounded hoarse, Malik let his foot off the gas pedal a little so he could listen with more intent, but didn’t otherwise gawk or urge Bakura on until he was ready. “I remember fighting, all of the times I was hungry, cold, sick, hurt…but I didn’t remember anything...anything good until I saw those things in the exhibit.”

Malik nodded slowly, his thumb pushing hard into the wheel as he thought. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I saw those things and it was like...I don’t know. Good wasn’t the right word just now but...the opposite of bad, maybe. I remembered how the village looked when it wasn’t burnt to the ground, I even knew which houses belonged to who, but now…” Bakura let his eyes fall shut for a moment, then opened them again back to the sky. “Nothing. No faces, no names, just the screams when they died.”

“We could always go back to the museum,” Malik offered, but Bakura just scoffed.

“If I had to choose between going back there or spending another thousand years in the ring, I’d double the sentence.” He sank into the seat a little more. “Besides, I’m not sure if it will even have the same effect.”

“But-” Something thudded from the front end of the car and shook, and Bakura found himself clutching the seat cushion while Malik swore and smacked the steering wheel a couple times before pulling the vehicle over to the side of the derelict road. He barely waited for it to stop before he got out, slamming the door hard, and popping open the hood. Immediately he was waving away a thick cloud of white smoke rising from the engine, and Bakura groaned loud enough that Malik looked agitated from outside while he shined a small flashlight from his phone into the machinery. He tinkered for a few long minutes while Bakura resisted the urge to get out and just walk back to the city, and just before he was about to do so anyway Malik came back and leaned in the doorway, oil stains on his hands and a seething expression on his face.

“The goddamn radiator is out.”

Bakura blinked at him. “Which means…?”

“We’re stuck, Cairo is an hour’s drive from here, so a day’s walk.” Malik wiped the oil off on the interior of the car out of spite. “and with the temperature dropping like this? There’s no way, it’s supposed to spike up early too.” He climbed back into the driver’s seat let his forehead rest against the wheel. “piece of shit American car…”

Bakura couldn’t help but laugh, silently at first until he was making Malik wince from how it reverberated in the car’s cabin. “Fucking fantastic! Just fucking...amazing. Why not at this point, you know? As if we haven’t been screwed enough?” He nudged Malik who just looked at him with an already irritated expression. “Come on, are you not getting it?”

“I get it.” He pulled out his phone and dialed the number for the rental company, and had to elbow Bakura in the arm to get him to be quiet long enough to report the situation. Lucky for them it didn’t seem that the man at the desk could speak anything but Arabic, so Bakura’s talk of curses and murder and irony which Malik wasn’t sure he even knew the definition of wasn’t alarming. Malik hung up once he got an ETA of four to six hours and chucked his phone into the backseat where he didn’t have to see the bright screen mock him. At the very least Bakura seemed to be coming back into his old annoying self again, the spirit certainly leapt at the chance to discuss anything but what really mattered. The smoke had left a sickly sweet smell in the air and Malik kept his door open with his foot so fresh air could circulate through. It didn’t take long for Bakura to become bored of their bad luck, and he retrieved the butterfly knife from his jacket and twirled it with half-interest. Malik was both surprised and not that Ryou had left it on his person even after all the spirit had surely done with it.

“You know another thing that’s weird about the modern world?” Bakura said out of nowhere, and Malik out of a lack of anything better to do, took the bait.

“What?”

“Bandits are hardly even a problem. Like you and I are on the side of the road and a day’s walk from civilization, I certainly would’ve been all over us, no questions asked. But now? Sure it’s a possibility but it’s not even close to a guarantee like how it was.” He shrugged and Malik leaned away to avoid the point of the knife invading his personal space. “Just odd to me, that’s all.”

“Nah, that makes sense. When people started living more in cities, that’s when the whole highwayman thing started to wane.” Malik shifted in his seat, might as well get comfortable if they were going to be there for a while. It was already getting colder and he rolled down the sleeves on his jacket. He regretted not eating before they left for the museum, how Bakura could do this for days on end was still as awful as it was impressive.

“The host learned about all that, I remember because he thought it was interesting for some asinine reason and read way too many books, could hardly get anything done.” Bakura let his arm cover his eyes and Malik leaned away from the knife again.

“Can you please keep that on your side? If we get matching arm stitches I’m going to be pissed.” 

Bakura didn’t uncover his face, just switched the knife to his other hand where he spun it it circles. “Fine, but only because I don’t need your brother and sister in our business for the millionth time.”

“Believe me, I know.” Malik nudged the door open a bit more even though the smoke had mostly dissipated into the desert.

“Speaking of them, I would’ve expected Isis to mobilize the entire Egyptian army to comb this place for you by now, if Rishid hadn’t called up a few of your mafia pals to do it first.”

“We weren’t the mafia, don’t insult me.” Malik grumbled, but his shoulders stiffened and he pulled his jacket a little closer around himself. “But considering they’re avoiding me like a disease I doubt they’re coming to the rescue.”

The knife stopped twirling and Bakura instead leaned forward and spread his hand flat on the console, balancing the blade between each finger for a second. “I don’t exactly have siblings but I’m pretty sure some dumb fight won’t make them leave you for dead.”

Malik shook his head and moved his leg into the car, letting his door shut with an ineffective click. “You don’t get it.” He turned on his side and watched Bakura work and leave little marks in the thick leather. “I, uh,” He cleared his throat, trying to buy himself time to remember why he was telling Bakura about this other than because he wanted someone to listen. Before it could have been anyone who wouldn’t ever bring it up again, but for some reason he didn’t want anyone else sitting in the seat next to him in that moment. “I told, no, ordered Rishid to be silent.”

“...That’s it?”

“It’s not just that. Rishid was my…” He tried to search for an accurate word but none of them were both flattering and accurate, so he instead simply spoke the truth. “He was my servant ever since I was a child. He did what I told him to, went where I told him to go, and if he defied me I didn’t hesitate to hurt him, especially when I had the rod. So when I barked an order at him...Ra…” Malik wished he hadn’t opened his mouth and he dragged a hand down his face, resting his chin in his palm and barely speaking about a mumble. Bakura hadn’t stopped the rhythmic tapping of the knife, in fact he had sped up and Malik watched his hands move. “They’re both afraid of me after battle city, but he’s the one who dealt with me on his own all those years after Isis left us. I’ve been trying to be a good person for their sake, so they know I don’t want to hurt them and that we can be a real family for the first time, and if that means leaving my chance at avenging our people and rising above mortality behind then so be it.” His voice wavered a bit, he wasn’t sure if he meant that wholeheartedly just yet. “but I really fucked up last night and I don’t know if I can fix it. Not sure if I even deserve to have it fixed anyway.”  
Bakura’s hand stilled once Malik stopped talking, and when Malik looked up he found that Bakura had been watching him this whole time. 

One second passed, then two, and Bakura flipped the knife in his hand and held out the handle to Malik. “You would’ve been a good priest.” He said, and Malik’s brows drew together in confusion as he took the knife after a beat of hesitation. He placed his own hand next to Bakura’s on the console and began repeating the same pattern Bakura had etched out on himself, starting out at an already considerable pace.

“What do you mean?”

Bakura hadn’t looked away from him, not even as the blade caught a drop of moonlight and flashed over his face. “You know, a priest of the Pharaoh. They were constantly sacrificing for him, rambling about how they weren’t worthy while letting blood at his feet and having the items burn them down to the bone. Would’ve fit right in.”

“You know I resent that.”

“Then don’t act like them.” Bakura smirked a little. “You’re going to lose it if you keep this up.” 

“That would almost be a blessing at this point. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is hurting people.” His marrow became acid as he let the gravity and the truth of that statement sink in. Everything he gained came from his ability to manipulate, destroy, conquer, and without the ability to draw blood for results he found himself stranded in the middle of a life he never dreamed of having. The knife found the end of its rhythm and Malik posed to start the pattern again, but Bakura flicked his hand from the console. Malik made to protest but then Bakura moved his hand in front of him and Malik’s eyes widened at the gesture. “You could lose a finger, and we aren’t getting towed out of here until daylight so if you bleed out you’re fucked.”

“Come on, I’m getting bored just watching.” That wasn’t the reason Bakura offered himself up and they both knew it, but neither was willing to say it out loud. Without another weak complaint Malik began tapping the point between Bakura’s fingers, which didn’t even flinch. “You can go faster.” Bakura said, not even looking at his hand.

“It’s called momentum.” Malik brought the knife down a little too close to Bakura’s index from the distraction but the spirit still didn’t so much as breathe, just watched Malik’s face as he increased his pace. The console was dotted with marks now but neither noticed, Malik wasn’t even looking at where the blade was coming down anymore, instead locking eyes with Bakura. If either of them moved an inch it could end in a rush of blood and a much bigger problem than boredom, but Malik wouldn’t let the thought steer him off course or hit the brakes and instead used the opportunity to outdo Bakura’s previous speed when he was playing solo. A minute hadn’t even passed but it felt like time had froze and that nothing existed beyond the cold desert sand outside their windows, and Malik didn’t particularly mind if that was by some twist of fate true.

Without warning the ceiling light clicked off as the last of the weakened battery was drained and Malik gasped, his hand stopping in midair. The moonlight barely edged through the sunroof and a ice cold bolt of fear went down his spine. Kul Elna had at least a touch of light from the car and the stars, even in that blackened corner where Bakura had been hiding there was the heavens to hold onto like a lifeline, now nothing stood between him and the dark and whatever lurked there waiting for him, biding time until it could drag him back into the nothingness it had made him taste before. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What?” Bakura’s voice was hushed but not from fear, but Malik could only see his hand and part of his arm where the moonlight rested, and not even that as he started to pull it back. 

“No, wait.” Malik grabbed his wrist without thinking and held it where he could see it, and then leaned to rummage through the backseat for the phone he threw. Bakura wasn’t resisting or tense at his grip and Malik felt just how cold Bakura was, and wondered if he was always like that. Finally the phone was in his hand and he flicked on the flashlight, illuminating the cabin in tired LED. “Fucking hell…”

Bakura raised an eyebrow at him but Malik was preoccupied with regulating his breathing. He realized he was still holding onto Bakura’s wrist and snatched his hand back, only moving again to put the knife on the now-ruined console before becoming stock still and leaning into his seat to look up at the roof. The flashlight made it a watery grey and he wished he could close his eyes and sleep off the anxiety without making it worse. The darkness brought on by his eyelids hadn’t affected him since he first left the tomb, and the fact that blinking for too long made his heart rate go off made him feel brittle and childish.

“What was that?” Bakura placed the now-folded knife in his jacket. He couldn’t look at Malik, not because of the episode but because of what it interrupted, and he drew his feet onto the seat when his crossed arms didn’t guard him enough.

“Forget it.” Malik’s face was hot with embarrassment and thanked a laundry list of gods that his skin tone was deep enough to hide it. “I just don’t like the dark, that’s all.”

Bakura slipped his thumb through the gap between the ring’s exterior wheel and the pyramid with the eye embossed onto it. It rumbled against his sternum and a wave of disgust went over him. He was the dark after all, born of it and inevitably returning to it once his tasks were completed. He had forgotten for the first time in millennia why he was even thrown into the 21st century in the moment he trusted Malik to not hurt him like the tombkeeper insisted he would eventually. Sure, Malik hadn’t sliced his hand open, but he had still been right in the end.


End file.
